Temporis
by ColumbiaTheGroupie
Summary: Isabella Swan moved to Portland to start a new life with her scientist boyfriend, Jacob. A walk in the woods throws Bella into a world of science fiction and heartbreak.
1. Last Rites

**Last Rights**

* * *

I could never comprehend the fine art of maneuvering a break up with grace. The heroic men and women that cried for a night or two, bettered themselves through meditation or medication, and eventually go on to form healthy boundaries with a more desirable partner. What normal human being actually possessed the emotional wherewithal to hold their head high, pack their bags, and leave with dignity?

Breaks up always catch me off guard. From my perspective: I awoke today, a regular Monday morning. Made breakfast while discussing impending holiday travel plans with my boyfriend of two years. I worked a full day at my debilitating nine-to-five, and by six-thirty post meridiem the pasta bolognese I made for dinner had been doused with ugly tears. At what point in the past twenty-four hours did the tragic hero of my livelihood decide to _respectfully share _all the gritty details of his infidelity? Why did Jacob Black think pasta night, _a Monday of all days_, would be the most desirable setting to profess undying love for this shiny, new undergraduate student? Was nothing sacred?

I embraced blind anger at first. The three bites of pasta I managed to choke down threatened to return with a vengeance, as did my unrelenting fear of abandonment. Jacob's brows were drawn together, his posture indicative of shame. The cup of ice water in my right hand splashed in Jacob's direction. I felt nothing. Water drenched his grey button-up, turning the fabric an inky black. The ice cubes cracked as they slid across the peeling linoleum floor.

"Who is she?" My voice became deep, demanding, unrecognizable. His Adam's apple bobbed as he absorbed the depth my boiling rage.

"Isabella-."

"Don't you dare," I warned. He frequently spoke my full name as a checkmate. I refused to lose this round.

"I won't disclose her information," he declared, pushing his soggy bowl of noodles toward the center of the table. "My work is confidential."

"You're a biologist, _Jacob," _I spat. "Not a goddamn therapist." My head began to spin as my heart rate spiked. I needed fresh air. The dingy yellow wall paper of our tiny bungalow kitchen appeared to ripple as my vision faltered. "I'm stepping out for a smoke."

_"Babe..." _Jacob whined, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair. I had a habit of getting lost in the nature preserve we called home. "It's cold, where are you gonna walk?"

"Through the canyon, not that you care."

"It's dark, Bella, be serious," he pleaded, his tone and expression seemingly bored. This exact disagreement occurred last week; however, we'd negotiated down to visiting the local library. He drove. "Of course I care." Jacob's actions failed to match his words. As I hastily unlatched our vintage jimmy-proof deadbolt, my deadbeat _ex-_boyfriend made zero effort to derail my escape.

The front door slammed behind me, the sound echoing off bricks of nearby buildings. The late November air was pins and needles on my bare arms. Staring in silence at the tree lined expanse, I recalled the cigarettes and down feather parka I'd left in Jacob's pickup as I carried our groceries haul inside a few hours earlier.

Dramatically tearing open the rusty passenger door of Jacob's beloved Chevy, I hoped to damage a hinge or dent the aging metal around a neighboring maple tree. That would surely hit Jacob where it hurt. A chill clung to the fabric of my forest green parka, but I was thankful to have an additional layer between me and the elements. My cigarettes had shifted to rest on the mud soaked floor mats next to Jacob's coffee thermos. I grabbed both items, thankful for the gift of caffeine and nicotine on this unusually blustery Portland night.

Sparking the first of three remaining cigarettes, I opted to traipse down a well lit trail through the Canyon. Students often used it as a link between their dorms and the university buildings. I'd walked it many times in the daylight this past summer.

Six months ago, Jacob and I moved from our small hometown in Washington state to Portland, Oregon. My better half had become something of a biology prodigy at the University of Washington. Reed College took notice at the conclusion of Jake's final thesis paper by extending a teaching grant. He was offered adequate housing, a salary, and the opportunity to work on projects of the _utmost importance_. At least, that's what Jacob told me after I came home to multiple towers of musty bank boxes in our small living room.

In retrospect, I can imagine an affair with a brainy co-ed was all the convincing he needed to uproot our lives. I reluctantly quit my beloved bookstore job, hugged my friends and family goodbye, and hastily packed up the first home we ever shared. Fortunately, my degrees in Literature and Business allowed me to remain gainfully employed in most cities, but Jacob was hardly the support system I needed. So, I found myself mildly depressed and stuck in a lonely rut most days. Calls from our friends happened daily at first. After the first month, contact was slim to none. Our sudden departure had alienated us quickly. Jake buried himself in work; I applied for jobs in consulting, clerking, stocking shelves. I eventually settled with a risk analysis position within a small consulting firm. If the workload didn't kill me; my _micro-_manager, Lauren, would.

Twenty five minutes into my hike, I found myself on an unfamiliar dirt path a short jaunt downhill from the pedestrian bridge. If I continued east, the path would lead me to the bottom on the canyon. Lighting another cigarette and thinking of my report due on Thursday, I chose to stay planted in my current position. The soothing sounds of small rapids could be heard below the jagged canyon face. Grey clouds reflected the light pollution from downtown Portland, enough illumination to see the towering silhouettes of barren cedars and maples, but not much else.

Oregon wasn't entirely dissimilar to Forks, Washington. Besides the population and wage disparity, the west hills resembled Calawah Ridge _enough. _With time I could learn to enjoy the arts and entertainment of Portland without Jacob anchoring me to our crumbling bungalow. Of course, I could always move back to Forks. I had to move somewhere. Sharing a seven-hundred-and-fifty square foot two-bedroom with my ex-boyfriend and his mistress was less than ideal.

I violently choked on my next inhale when the harsh reality of Jacob's actions constricted my lungs. Reaching into my coat pocket, my fingers met with Jacob's aluminum coffee cup. I wasted no time in discarding the lid and emptying the room temperature liquid into my mouth. Relief, followed by regret, flooded my senses. The liquid burned my throat, yet lacked any heat. Slightly sweet, with a sticky and viscous finish; I spat the remaining liquid into the ravine and wiped my lips with the back of my hand. _Definitely not coffee. _Though, the forest was too dark to identify what the dark mystery liquid could be. Probably a long forgotten latte experiment.

Frustrated with my luck, I chucked Jacob's beloved _Contigo _thermos into the canyon. The Reed College emblem mocked me as it disappeared into the darkness. Forest restoration be damned, my heart was shattered.

I lit my last cigarette before scaling the treacherous incline to the pedestrian bridge. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, the need to be extreme felt all consuming. Windchill had dropped the temperature significantly since my hike began. Deciding to climb the hypotenuse had been an impulse decision, but it would shorten the duration of my journey, thus preventing me from freezing.

the latter half of Reed Canyon's face was deceptively steep in the dark and the terrain increasingly loose with each step. Halfway up the thirty foot cliff, a boulder that I'd used as a foothold began to wobble. I stilled instantly, grabbing a frozen root from the underbrush. Several smaller rocks tumbled to the trail below. The realization dawned on me that Reed Canyon had few hikers past mid October. And the few that traipsed the smaller trails never did so at night.

"Alright Bella, figure this one out. What would dad say?" I mumbled, testing the resilience of the cluster of rocks to my right. Tiny pebbles rolled downward, but the hold appeared promising. I clumsily shifted my weight at the exact moment my perch crashed into a young birch tree twenty feet below. I sighed in relief, mentally promising that I'd visit my local place of worship if I made it home unscathed. "Ten more feet, partner. You've got this."

Thorny shrubs punctured the skin of my palms, pain throbbed throughout my arms with no reprieve. How the hell had I ended up here? Single, bleeding, _starving_, and hanging from a cliff by a literal thread? _Fucking Mondays. _I laughed aloud, the echo bounced around the vast canyon.

I contemplated falling purposefully. I wouldn't have to explain Jacob's mistress to my friends and family from six feet under, I'd never have to post another expense report for Lauren... But if the fall didn't kill me, I'd lie in agony at the bottom of a strange canyon until I eventually succumbed to the elements.

Shamefully pushing the act of suicide far from my grief riddled brain, I continued to shimmy upward. The prospect of a warm bath, trash television, and a pint of Ben & Jerry's acted as my emotional support as I closed the remaining five feet.

A deafening _snap_ alerted me to a misstep with my climbing method. Before I could check the branch I'd been holding seconds before, blurry tree tops filled my vision. Followed by dirt, then light from the bridge, trees again, and an all too clear peripheral view of my ankle wrapping around a petrified log. Pain shot through several ribs as I bounced off a ragged rock, my arms fractured as I attempted to slow my fall. All vision cut out instantaneously as my temple collided with the ground. The call of a lone crow crooned into the night. I faded into unconsciousness listening to nature's rendition of my last rites.

* * *

Early morning birdsongs filled the musty, cold air. I was outside, but how had I gotten there? Why would I sleep outside? Where was Jacob? A throbbing ache in my head was exacerbated by the sounds of rodents and other forest critters. Had the canyon always been so loud?

My fingers twitched, slowly activating sore muscles and tendons elsewhere in my body. A vague memory of dirt and intricate root systems worked its way into my mind, but the strange flashes lacked context. A curious tingling emanated from my skin, as though I could sense the blood sluggishly hammering through my veins. Bones creaked as I rocked my torso into an upright position. My eyes flew open when cramping pains gripped my stomach. Warm bile forced its way up my esophagus, followed by coagulated blood and last night's pasta. I groaned, my limbs feeling heavy and inflexible.

_"Help,_" I croaked. The sound was pathetic, not even warranting an echo up the steep rock face.

Exasperated, I looked to the whitewashed sky. Not a glimpse of blue or grey to be seen, just bright white cloud cover. Birds carried on overhead, and to the south students could be heard walking to class. As my heartbeat punctuated the passage of time, thoughts of work and my daily chore list solidified my resolve to walk out of the forest.

Like a recently born fawn, I clumsily shuffled my feet along an unofficial hiking trail parallel to a small gully. The water chugged along slowly, hitting rocks and fallen branches; seemingly mimicking my gait.

After a lifetime of walking, a moss covered _Reed College_ directory plaque came into view. Small yellow arrows pointed in opposing directions, gesturing to auditoriums in the south, and student housing just a quarter of a mile to the north. The soles of my mud caked trainers touched concrete only a few minutes later.

Jacob's blue Chevy was parked on the gravel drive where he'd left it yesterday evening, I recalled with ease. However, a Portland patrol car occupied the space behind it. I quickened my pace to a slow jog, instinctually retrieving our obviously fake hide-a-key rock and the spare set of keys.

The door opened before I could disengage the secondary lock.

"Bella?" Jacob's normally tanned and healthy complexion was a sickly grey color. Purple rings encircled his dark brown eyes. "I'm so relieved you're back."

Stunned by his enthusiastic greeting, especially because my subconscious was yelling at me to hate this man, I kept my distance. Jacob certainly had something to do with my _wild_ wakeup call.

"You've got to be freezing. I was just making coffee." My feet stayed planted to the faded porch welcome mat. "Bells? I'm sorry about... _you know."_

Hazy images of homemade pasta and freezer burned ice on yellowing linoleum assaulted my equally hazy mind. My eyes flashed to the kitchen table behind Jacob's scrawny frame. Two bowls of semisolid pasta sat rotting on the formica.

"Mrs. Black? I'm Officer Ryan of the Portland Police Department." A stout man in blue rounded the corner leading to the family room.

"Swan," I corrected him, suddenly finding my voice. "I'm not married."

"Right. Ms. Swan have you been harmed in any way?" He inquired, his eyes shifting between Jacob and myself. "Do you require medical attention?"

"Uh, um," I cleared my throat. "No, I'm sorry to have worried you. I must've dozed off last night."

Jacob and Officer Ryan exchanged a very poignant glance. "Bells? Maybe you should come warm up inside?"

Feeling torn between the claustrophobia of our tiny yellow house and being swallowed by the barren forest at my back, I opted to remain motionless once again.

"Please?" Jacob begged, his voice a soft whisper. His deep, dark eyes swirled like the eye of a violent hurricane.

Reluctantly, I stepped inside. The continuous whir of the fridge immediately aggravated the headache I'd been living with for nearly an hour.

"Why don't we all have a seat and figure out what happened?" The officer suggested, pulling out two of the four kitchen chairs. The wood scraped across the floor. I winced when the sound pierced my ears like daggers. "I know you're exhausted Ms. Swan, but I do need to file an incident report for the station log."

Claiming a chair closest to the door, I rattled off several details that I could remember and filled in the blanks with activities I'd done recently.

"And you're saying all this happened after dinner?" Officer Ryan questioned, his eyes flitting to the uneaten meals on the table.

"Yes."

"Mmkay," he nodded, jotting a few words on his mini yellow legal pad. "Ms. Swan, there's no delicate way to explain this," he paused, setting down his Bic pen and notepad. "You've been a missing person for nearly fifty hours."

"Oh."

"You're boyfriend contacted authorities on Tuesday morning when you failed to return home on Monday evening," he explained, his brows sternly drawn together. His tone was clinical and clearly practiced. "Can you declare any sort of alibi for the past two days?"

"Am I under arrest or something?"

"Well, no..." he mumbled. "It's just not often a Professor's partner goes missing for two days in the wilderness and returns of their own accord. I just want to ensure my report is accurate."

The three of us were silent for a moment. Jacob awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Are you two having any domestic problems?"

"No," Jacob blurted out, his eyes shifting to me and then Officer Ryan.

"No," I whispered, diverting my gaze to the floor. The single syllable felt entirely wrong on my tongue. Though, currently every one of my senses was being assaulted with unprecedented intensity. The air tasted overwhelmingly sweet, like lead paint, and faintly of Jacob's musky body odor. Different scents wafted from every corner of the house. The floor radiated the odor of rotting foundation beams. Decades of cigarette smoke permeated the walls, which the landlord had clearly attempted to conceal with several sloppy layers of latex primer.

"Mmkay," Officer Ryan hummed, resuming his sporadic note taking.

"Ms. Swan, do you take any medications or drink on occasion?"

"Uh, I take Ambien to sleep sometimes. I only drink socially."

"Alright. One last question, Ms. Swan; Do you have any family or friends you could stay with for a while?"

"Officer, I told you nothing was going on between us," Jacob interjected. Officer Ryan's eyes narrowed, his expression quickly transforming into a scowl. "I'm sorry. S'pose I'm a little keyed up from all this."

"My parents are back in Washington," I admitted. Fond memories of a small Tudor Composite home in rural Washington pushed to the forefront of my mind. A slim, balding man with dark brown hair and a constant five o'clock shadow next to a beautiful woman with deep laugh lines around her blue eyes, and red highlights that glowed in the sun: Charlie and Renee. My parents. I longed for a warm motherly hug or the light hearted chastising of my war weathered father. We embodied the dream of a traditional nuclear family in America. We often made up for a lack of security in savings with words of encouragement and love. "Can I excuse myself?"

"Uh, yes, of course. Ms. Swan, I implore you to make an appointment with your general practitioner. I'm no doctor, but your memory loss is concerning," Officer Ryan explained. I nodded in agreement, slowly rising from my chair.

I exited the room without a parting word. A pit of nausea in my stomach told me Jacob was hiding something bigger from the patrolman than a potential disagreement. I racked my brain for any sort of clues that would explain his suspicious behavior, but came up with with the same images of spilt water and icy underbrush.

"I love you, Bells. I'll be in shortly with coffee," Jacob cooed. Every syllable fell from his mouth with a trace of cold contempt. I wretched at the thought of his company.

Careful to close the door and quietly turn the lock, I cradled my phone which had been haphazardly thrown on the bottom corner of our queen sized mattress. Expecting to see an onslaught of worried text messages from Jacob or possibly the authorities, I was surprised to see a single, very curt, text message from my _beloved_ boyfriend.

_"Where's my Contigo."_

Of course. His beloved coffee mug. No questions asked, just a straightforward accusation of theft over a reusable coffee mug of absolutely no value. It was hard to believe that Jacob was worried about me at all. Perhaps he'd contacted the police to enhance his charade of the perfect and dutiful boyfriend? The Reed College campus, and Portland as a whole, was a very tight-knit community. If a professor's girlfriend failed to clock in at work for days at a time, wouldn't an employer make a courtesy call? Lauren hadn't texted or called me on Tuesday morning, which lead me to believe she expected my absence.

My brain had lost so many pieces of this particular puzzle. How did two entire days of my life just cease to exist? A head injury while hiking in the woods would explain my symptoms, but how did I emerge from the woods unassisted and unharmed? Why was Jacob on edge?

Officer Ryan's voice carried through our tiny house, punctuating the spiral of questions I'd probably never know the answer to. "Is she on any medications?"

"Not at the moment. I've been askin' her to see someone about her problems, but you know how women can be," Jacob joked. I recalled a back handed suggestion to seek help with the school's psychologist after a particularly heated argument, but his insinuation that I'd been medicated previously was simply not true. Even the Ambien I'd taken had been scored in small amounts from a sympathetic coworker. His lies made me feel filthy.

Layers of dirt and grime on my down parka certainly added to my discomfort. I pulled the tab on my three foot zipper to reveal a grey cableknit sweater soaked in dried blood. I quickly shed the offensive garment to reveal deep purple bruises wrapped around my torso and arms. My fingers gently probed and prodded my abdomen, only experiencing pain as I twisted to examine my back in the vanity mirror.

A knock on the door interrupted my inspection.

"Bella, please unlock the door? My phone's in there," Jacob's voice rattled the door dividing the five feet between us.

_His phone. _Without so much as a creaking floorboard, I retrieved Jacob's oversized smartphone from his bed stand. He kept it attached to a charger atop a worn research journal. Something about blood-types.

Three missed calls and two text messages from Kate around seven-thirty this morning. We didn't know a Kate. If Jacob hung around with a woman named Kate, I would know about her.

The message that caught my attention was an online receipt for two round trip flights to Pheonix, Arizona on December twentieth. I blanched. Jacob was seeing another woman. Somehow this information triggered intense deja vu. Rage caused my blood to boil. An intense vision of Jacob's beating heart in my bare hand flashed across my mind's eye, a frightening impulse that had me questioning the state of my sanity.

I looked into the mirror again, hypnotized by the deep color of my irises. Naturally a warm brown, my eyes had become vantablack. Shadowless, unnatural, and capable of absorbing ninety-nine percent of surrounding light.

My skin was sallow, ghosts of bruises highlighting my cheeks and nose. Officer Ryan's advice to see a doctor was sound.

Donning a black turtleneck and blue jeans, I opened the door to see Jacob's flushed face. "I think I should see a doctor."

"I'm a doctor." His usual retort.

"A medical doctor."

"Fine."

* * *

At two in the afternoon Jacob drove us to the University hospital. The plastic waiting room chairs smelled of bleach and decay, a nauseating cacophony of aromatics. We waited forty minutes in uncomfortable silence.

"Isabella Swan?" A waif-like registered nurse poked her head through the door, glancing between her clipboard and the dreary room before her.

Delighted at the opportunity to be separated from Jacob, I nearly sprinted to the nurse, startling her in the process. "Uh, room three," she stuttered, her eyes locking onto the depths of my inky irises.

She led me to a cubicle sized room with minimal equipment. "The doctor will be with you soon." With that she closed the door.

Anti-smoking and birth control paraphernalia littered the grey toned walls. I could make out entire motes of dust dancing chaotically in the fluorescent lights above me. Approaching the fifteen minute mark, I began looking for star constellations in the textured drop ceiling while resting my head against the crinkly exam paper. The high pitched hum of medical machinery caused an overwhelming wave of queasiness that took several minutes to recover from. I closed my eyes until the doctor knocked twice, signaling their arrival.

A middle aged man with cropped blonde hair entered the room. He smelled of soap and cigarettes. "Isabella, I'm Doctor Fisher. What brings you in today?"

Purposely avoiding eye contact, I straightened my posture to address him. "I'm experiencing some memory loss after I hit my head... I think."

"You think?" he repeated, raising his left brow.

"Uh, well. I have these bruises on my abdomen. I can't recall the past two days and I... woke up in the woods today."

"Any pain or broken bones?"

"Not really, just bruises."

"May I look at your abrasions? He asked, discarding a slim manila envelope on the exam chair behind me.

Hesitantly, I lifted my shirt to the hem of my bra. His cold fingers ghosted across my spine, searching for injury. Next, he lifted his stethoscope to my chest. The room was uncomfortably still, I swear I could hear the rhythm of Doctor Fisher's heartbeat.

"A slight arrhythmia, nothing to be concerned about if you're malnourished," he explained, sloppily jotting his findings.

I hissed as he aimed his flashlight at my pupils, his hand faltered slightly. "Sorry," I mumbled nervously, terrified of what he'd say about the abnormal color of my eyes.

"If our theory is correct, injuries to the cranium can result in a fracturing of the pupil; hence, the appearance of your iris. I wouldn't worry unless you begin to experience vision loss or further irritation."

"And my nausea?"

The doctor paused, carefully considering how my symptoms presented as a whole. "Any sensitivity to light or sounds?"

I nodded.

"Isabella, from one wilderness enthusiast to another: hike with a spotter, many hikers injure themselves and never return. But as your doctor, I prescribe two Acetaminophen, a healthy lunch, and a warm shower. You have a concussion."

I agreed. My appetite was beginning to feel normal and my skin beyond grimy, I anxiously eyed the exam room door.

"A harness is better than a hearse, my dear. Now, I'll speak with Jacob about your treatment. You're very lucky to have that boy," Doctor Fisher smiled, proud of himself for successfully treating yet another patient. All traces of hunger disappeared with thoughts of Jacob.

_Lucky_? The man cheated on me. He was going to abandon our holiday plans to soak up sun in Arizona. He was going to replace me with some newer, smarter model. I wouldn't consider myself a fortunate person in this current stage of life.

"This visit is a favor to Jacob, so feel free to dine and dash. I hope you feel better soon, Ms. Swan." Doctor Fisher chuckled as he quickly ducked into the examination room across the hall. His high tenor could be heard delivering the same carefully practiced greeting he fed me.

The car ride home proved to be as quiet as the first. Before exiting the truck's cab, Jacob casually asked about his coffee mug once more. Nervous energy emanated from his hunched shoulders.

"I've never kept track of that stupid thing," I quipped. He failed to respond before I slammed the car door in his face. I lazed in bed for the rest of the day, feigning sleep to better deal with the anger and heartbreak of losing Jacob to another woman. Despite his insufferable attitude lately, I loved him. The deception shredded old wounds of the first emotionally abusive boyfriend I allowed into my life Freshman year of college.

Every hit or miss, success and celebration was tainted with an image of Jacob undressing a faceless woman in our bedroom. How dare he ruin my life so completely? If it weren't for Jacob Black, I wouldn't be in Portland, let alone concussed and injured after falling into a ravine. I'd have my college friends, my mom's Sunday morning flapjack parties, and a small modicum of self respect.

A single knock on the door startled my train of thought. "Bells, I have bagels." Jacob must've slipped into town.

"I'm not hungry," I mumbled, pulling our lavender duvet just over my eyes. An unfamiliar perfume assaulted my nose. Sickly sweet and floral to a fault, my suspicion of Jacob's home base infidelity cemented itself in reality.

Unparalleled rage gripped my nervous system. Before I could complete my next breath, my hand gripped the doorknob, nearly ripping the plywood off its hinges. The words "Who is Kate?" rolled off my tongue.

Jacob blanched. Surprised by my intensity. "I'm sorry?" insincere confusion colored his tone.

"The other woman? Is she your student? Another professor?"

"You hit your head pretty hard. I'm not angry, but these accusations must stop. I could lose my job, Isabella." he explained, nervously rubbing the back of his high and tight haircut. _No checkmate._

"I don't care if you're mad. You cheated, I saw the messages on your phone," I confirmed. Any remaining blood in Jacob's body froze instantly, his heart rate seemingly tripled as our gaze met.

"Tell me, what did you see?" More demands.

"Your week long trip to Phoenix for Christmas," I countered. "What's in Phoenix?"

Jacob sputtered, his eyes searching for clues in the room behind me. "A conference."

"And why does _Kate_ need to go?"

His Adam's apple bobbed, clearly choking on the guilt shaking his scrawny shoulders.

"It's classified by the investor of our current project, Isabella. You know I can't disclose premature findings," he repeated for the hundredth time since his contract began. "And furthermore, I won't be questioned like this. You've been a wet blanket since we moved here, Bella. Your behavior has been neglectful. I think it's time we talked about breaking up."

I blinked, shocked by his usage of the classic _bait and switch_. "I'm one step ahead of you," I snapped, a pathetic growl escaped my throat. It had been involuntary, but unnatural nonetheless. My face flushed, I could never look Jacob in the eye with red stained cheeks.

"Where will you go?" he asked, worry crept further into his tone after realizing I agreed with his separation proposal.

"Back to Washington, somewhere else in Portland. I haven't decided," I said, my tone despondent but calm. I cast my brown curls forward to hide the shame on my face. Less than one thousand dollars existed under my name at Calawah Regional Credit Union. My options were slim, and mainly consisted of living with my parents for some denomination of time.

One bedroom apartments in my hometown were a dreadful commodity to behold. Long forgotten after the shuttering of Clallam Bay Community College, apartment buildings in Forks touted inefficient radiator coils and Tribe mandated grey water systems. In the fifties, contractors haphazardly marred the Native Burning Grounds with the curse of cheaply built, mid century modern architecture. Gone were the days of paying pennies for a space the size of your full size mattress and formica dinette. Now residents were forced to _fork_ over two thirds of their meagre income to maintain a single family home. Most of my peers found themselves living in their childhood homes until a ring sat comfortably between their third and fifth fingers.

"Bells, can we please sit down and eat? You're not leaving right now. Doc prescribed lunch and sleep," Jacob sighed, holding up a greasy white paper bag.

My appetite roared to life, though the stench of lox and chive cream cheese twisted my stomach.

"I'm fine," I deadpanned. My fingertips pushed the door closed once again, this time splintering the wood.


	2. Homecoming

**Homecoming**

* * *

The long weekend passed by in a series of naps and bouts of nausea that left me confined to our closet sized bathroom. Acetaminophen hardly touched the ache that haunted my bones and every meal upturned my stomach for hours on end. My estranged roommate wasn't convinced I was getting better despite my best attempts to hide any symptoms.

Jacob approached the bedroom, his steps wary, like the precipice would give way to an avalanche.

"Bella?" His voice was met with silence. "Are you awake?"

I rolled over to meet his gaze. "What?"

"I think we need to see a doctor again."

Jacob had suggested a follow up appointment with Dr. Fisher on Friday, to which I refused. What would I tell them? I had no appetite? No motivation to get dressed? My boyfriend cheated on me? I'd be diagnosed with _hysteria_ or depression. Sent packing with a prescription for some generic SSRI and a slap on the wrist for slandering a professor. "No."

"I can drive you to the hospital on my way to the lab." Jacob stared at the ceiling. He was finally going back to work today. "You'll need to find a ride home after, I work till eight."

"No, just go," I mumbled into my pillow, desperate to be alone for more than a few hours.

"Okay. See you later, I guess," he whispered. His blank expression and weary tenor confirmed the issue would not be pressed further. Jacob's heavy foot falls echoed down the hall as he collected his briefcase and outerwear. As the side door lock clicked into place, I peeked through our small bedroom window just as my ex-boyfriend started his truck and sped away. No doubt eagre to return to his studies and _Kate._

Jacob was notorious for staying at his lab until the late hours of the evening. Eight PM was a scheduled rarity; a suggestion from the zealots in management. Jacob once clocked activity with a subject at four in the morning. I'd come across notarized time stamped logs back in August, which happened to be the first time suspicions of Jacob's infidelity arose. The logs quickly dispelled any doubts of another woman, but the hours were concerning nonetheless.

Now, I was secretly hoping he'd never return to this crumbling yellow tomb I loathingly refused as my home. Home appeared as the little grey house Jacob and I shared in Forks, but my modest budget would never allow such extravagant accommodation. Not to mention, the holidays proved to be an impossible time to secure a lease.

Thoughts of Charlie and Renee's empty nest flooded my mind. My parent's home remained untouched; a fortified relic from the adolescence of Bella Swan. Warm maple floorboards gouged from forbidden attempts to roller skate indoors. Height tallies and pictures haphazardly strewn atop a wallpapered floral motif. Cherished moments like preschool graduation and dad's retirement party hung at your fingertips for maximum effect while you reminisce.

I grimaced, my brows drawing together as I contemplated absolute rock bottom.

Pulling my phone from the nightstand, I dialed the eleven numbers assigned to my parent's outdated landline. My mother's voice answered just before the second ring.

"Swan Residence, Renee speaking," she chirped. I could picture Renee with the phone between her cheek and shoulder, flitting around our sunny kitchen to her favorite morning radio station.

"Mom."

"Oh, Bella. Are you alright? Are you and Jacob fighting?" Her sympathetic voice crooned in my ear. I curled into the fetal position as more nausea gripped my stomach.

"He's cheating on me," I said, void of emotion. Mental repetition had numbed me to those words. _Jacob cheated on me._

"Are you coming home?"

"Can I?"

"Of course, honey," Renee's enthusiasm was infectious. "I'll have to wash your sheets and go grocery shopping. When will you be here?"

Her questions continued as I pondered the timing of my departure. Physically unwinding my existence from Jacob's would be a laborious, drawn out process. Every book and kitchen utensil would need to be identified and packed away. Not to mention the boxes left untouched in our neglected hall closet. I could tackle every room in five days, I'd done it before. However, processing the items into boxes destined for my parent's garage in Forks would take weeks of emotional labor.

"Tonight?" I blurted, unsure of whom I was asking permission: my mother or myself.

"Charlie!" she shouted away from the receiver. "Pull down the attic, Bella's coming home tonight! Oh dear, I have so much to do."

"Mom, don't worry about it. I, uh... I'll call you from the airport."

"I love you. Please be safe. Do you need any money? Dad wants to know if you need any money?" The sound of my father's gruff baritone overshadowed my mother.

"Tell him no, I'm okay. I love you, too. Bye, mom." I ended the call before Renee could regale some juicy gossip from the neighborhood. I was not in the mood for homegrown anecdotes, I had to pack my favourite worldly goods and board a flight before the news of my departure spread to Jacob. In his presence, I would hesitate, unable to maintain such a harsh boundary under his scrutiny. In conjunction with Forks' small town status and my mother's penchant for spreading homecoming announcements like wildfire in the peninsula; I probably had four or five hours to achieve these goals.

Springing to life, I dove through my laundry basket to retrieve my favorite pair of classic Levis and an oversized forest green sweater. My old canvas backpack would have to serve as my carry-on as I lacked any sort of regulation travel gear. At most, I'd fit a few pairs of pants, a sweater, and maybe a book or two. I frowned. Another move. More change. My resolve to leave waned just as quickly as it peaked.

But I had to leave. The stress of our tense relationship was wreaking havoc on my body. Bones were visible through my translucent, paper-thin skin. My cheeks hallowed by the day as the taste of decay stained my mouth. A few of my teeth were beginning to come loose, I realised most recently as my tongue worried over my upper mandible. I tried to cry, but tears refused to breach my lower lid. Taunting me, they welled in my lashes; the salinity burned my flat black eyes.

Forgoing my closet, I opened the night stand drawer to access my most sentimental belongings. A picture of my parents as teenagers, a letter from grandfather Swan, and a picture of Jacob and I posing in front of our first home together. Grabbing the former objects, I left the portrait for Jacob to find. He meant nothing to me now. Memories of us were hazy and unremarkable, like a fleeting encounter with a stranger instead of a long term lover.

A small smile pricked at the corners of my mouth as I closed the drawer. _Goodbye Jacob Black._

* * *

_"Good evening passengers, this is your captain speaking. We'll be turning that seat belt sign back on now, if you'd please take your seats. Attendants, prepare the cabin for landing."_

I internally groaned as the pitchy intercom triggered yet another migraine. Pressure from the heel of my palm did little to dull the pain. The stewardess noticed my posture and quietly offered a ginger ale. I declined.

Fifteen excruciating minutes passed before the plane clumsily landed on the tarmac of William R. Fairchild Airport. The gray sky and nearby mountain tops greeted me like a long lost friend as we deplaned via airstair. A mixture of snow and rain splashed on the apples of my cheeks. I filled my lungs with the familiar crisp air of Washington's vast Olympic Peninsula.

Leaving Jacob seemed like an impossibility eight hours ago. It certainly hadn't taken much convincing, but the act of spending my final dollars on a standby plane ticket was far from the parameters of my typical behaviour. Something _other _was stirring within me, something that sent a shock of delight and fear down my spine. I inhaled once more, reveling in my personal renaissance.

My phone began to ring the moment I noticed Renee's rusted Subaru Legacy idling in a _No Parking_ zone outside baggage claim. Weary from the flight, I approached the passenger door and lightly tapped the window. Mom startled, but franticly threw herself across the center console to open the door.

"Still haven't fixed that child lock?" I chuckled, slinging my green canvas book bag to the floor between my feet.

"Geez, Bella, you scared me half to death," mom scolded. "I was just calling you."

She looked older than I remembered. More lines had accumulated around her eyes and mouth. Grey streaks peppered her wavy chestnut locks. Time had clearly passed. I'm sure her visual appraisal of me held a similar conclusion.

"Did they not feed you in Portland?"

"I'm fine. Bad flu the past week or so," I whispered, refusing to meet the observant gaze of Renee Swan. She undoubtedly noticed my eyes, hollow cheeks, and general sense of despair. I was not prepared for a parental wellness check.

"Forks General got a new doctor this July. Cute little family, your father says they're quite philanthropic. I'm just amazed they settled on Forks of all places-"

Mom continued to prattle on about Forks' hottest gossip as we veered right on US101 headed west. Endless rows of identical evergreens whipped past my window. Unlike Portland, forests of the peninsula held memories of childhood playdates, hiking with Grandpa Swan, and all things familiar and good.

"Are you still smoking?" Mom asked, interrupting the melodrama unfolding in my mind.

"Uh..." I stuttered. The last cigarette I smoked had been over a week ago, surely? I hadn't been _craving_ cigarettes either, which was odd considering the habit was built on years of sneaking them from my father's coat pocket. "Not so much lately."

"Good," she declared, careening her wagon along the strip of highway that diverged into Forks Avenue. Antiquated shops and restaurants constructed from aluminum siding littered the stretch. It was Forks' way of saying _"Hey! We're still here!"_ Most kids born in our unfortunate town chose to spend their time and money in Port Angeles.

"Do you need anything from the store?" she asked, glancing at my threadbare sack.

"I, _uh_, I left all my stuff with-"

"We'll drive into town tomorrow. Make it a girls day," Renee danced in her seat, thrilled to be spending time with her only child.

My parent's house hadn't changed a bit since I left, save for the newly constructed shed tucked behind a large pine tree. I stared further into the barren treeline expecting to see nothing but branches and darkness, when a flash of movement caught my attention. At first I dismissed it as an deer, but the vibrant coloring struck me as man-made_._ Though certainly not human at all, considering humans couldn't disappear from sight in a single second.

"Come on, honey," Mom called from the front porch. "I've got steaks in the fridge!"

"My girl!" My dad greeted me from his well worn checkered recliner. The scene before me was so comforting, I could barely contain my excitement as I plopped down in the brown leather chair opposite my father.

"Have the Seahawks scored?" I inquired, hoping to distract my dad long enough to avoid any Jacob related questions.

"Not yet, Cadet," he said, glassy eyes glued to the flat screen. Charlie's brown combover had thinned and his beer gut had grown exponentially since he retired from the force, but he would always be Captain Swan to me.

"You two catch up," Renee demanded as she pulled out a pyrex container with three beef filets inside. "Char, Medium-rare okay for you?"

My dad grunted, his preferred signal of approval.

"Mid-well, right honey?" she asked, peaking her heart shaped face into the living room. I froze. In adolescence, I feared latent bacteria in raw meat and often ate vegetarian meals to combat any doubts. As a result, my mother cooked proteins longer to encourage me to eat anything other than carrot sticks and white bread.

For the first time in nearly a week; however, the idea of a raw steak excited my nonexistent palate. "Can you make mine rare, uh, medium rare?" I stuttered when my father's gaze flickered from the television screen to my wide eyed gape.

"Did you get contacts?" he questioned, sitting forward in his chair.

"No."

"Medium-rare it is," Renee confirmed, turning her attention back to the kitchen.

"Catch any big fish lately?" I asked, a further deflection tactic.

"It's mid November," Charlie deadpanned. He took the hint; however, and continued watching Monday night football.

Once dinner was ready, I took my usual seat next to Charlie. He preferred the routine aspects of life. Charlie and I were quite similar.

"So, Bells," my father began, eagerly carving into his steak. "I talked to Billy-"

"Charles T. Swan," Renee chastised at the exact moment my fork crashed into mom's nicest china.

"Listen, sometimes a man-"

"No, dad. I can't-"

"Charlie, let's not do this-"

"_Fucking fix this_," I growled. Charlie straightened to attention while Renee leaned back with a napkin to her lips, eyes wide like she'd seen a ghost. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice."

A thick blanket of silence fell over the dinner table. The echo of an involuntary feral growl played in my mind. As effortless as breathing, the primitive warning escaped my lips faster than I could process the frustration that caused it.

I managed to choke down four miniscule bites of bleeding red steak before an overwhelming swell of nausea overtook my consciousness.

"May I be excused?"

"Of course, honey," my mom crooned, her compassionate blue gaze followed my slumped shoulders until I disappeared up the stairs.

Within the privacy of my childhood bedroom, I focused my attention on the unfamiliar reflection staring back from my Grandmother's hand-me-down vanity.

Similar to a black hole, my skin seemed to absorb surrounding light, emanating a ghostly bioluminescence. Vantablack irises stared behind deep purple bruises. My hair hung limply around my shoulders, brittle and matted from neglect. I attempted a smile, the sinister gesture caused my heart to beat faster in fear. Blood soared through my veins, trails of vibrant blue beneath my sheer complexion.

My mouth was the most worrisome, however. Ruddy saliva stained my gumline, a sure-fire symptom of Periodontitis. Until last week I'd practiced textbook dental hygiene, could gum disease manifest so quickly? With the tip of my tongue I poked my left canine outward. The roots and cartilage produced an audible popping sound just before the tooth landed at my feet.

I crouched to delicately cradle the small pointed tooth in my palm. Signs of decay and breakage were nonexistent upon inspection. Curiosity prompted me to twist the other canine between my thumb and forefinger. Unsurprisingly, the offending tooth fell away in much the same manner.

Standing up, I continued scrutinising the rest of my body. I counted all the usual freckles and moles three times. No recent scars or injuries, though my skin had faded into a sickly grey under the dim bedroom light.

Any medical doctor would plainly see the degeneration of my health, but what sort of diagnoses could they confirm? My bank account lacked the cash flow to go on a witch hunt for terminal cancer or some rare blood disease. According to Jacob, Forks General lacked the tools and staff needed to properly execute higher level testing.

Furthermore, they'd consider drug addiction first, as I hailed from a backwater town with a heroin problem; and now that I lacked employment and lived with my doting parents, who would vouch for my sobriety?

"Bells, are you okay?" Renee tapped on my door, trying the knob seconds later when I failed to respond. Fortunately I'd locked the door.

"Just sleepy," I lisped, unsure how to enunciate around my new smile. "I love you, mom."

A long pause. "I love you, sweetie." She listened through the door for a moment before returning to the dinner table.

Depositing my late premolars onto the faded oak vanity, I quickly shed my jeans and sweater to the ground. Pajamas hadn't been on my packing list, A fact I would come to regret as my bedroom's lone window allowed biting drafts to permeate our quaint upper level.

* * *

Around midnight, I awoke to the sound of dead branches scraping along the siding, a familiar lullabye courtesy of our sesquicentennial maple tree. I tried to stretch, but my rigid limbs were pretzeled beneath two sheets, a duvet, and a paralyzing blanket of bitter cold. My arm cautiously poked out from under the covers, teeth chattering, to fumble with Grandma Baker's bedside lamp. Panes of stained glass flickered to life immediately, the adjustment of my tender eyes followed seconds after.

I sleepily donned my street clothes and socks before padding down the hall in search of nourishment, careful to avoid the squeakiest sections of hardwood. At the end of the hall, Dad's orange hued reading light illuminated the stairwell, I froze.

"Bells?"

Charlie Swan often slept in his recliner, and as a child this habit ensured sneaking food was an impossibility. He was known for stirring to the sound of squirrels in nearby trees and grumbled when Postman Gary's white jeep thundered down the main road three miles away.

"Yes, dad?"

"You're twenty-five, I'm not gonna ground you over a midnight snack," he laughed, his incredulous tone barely topped a whisper.

My sock-clad feet ghosted down the stairs, withholding the eye contact my militant father mandated, before burying myself in an overstuffed loveseat.

"What's going on with you, kid?"

"Jacob-"

"I don't care what's going on with that boy," Charlie interrupted. "I raised my daughter to never need a man. What's got you so hung up that I barely recognise you."

I considered telling my father the truth about my accident and subsequent health decline, but the holes in my memory regaled a prospect more alarming than clinical depression. "I'm just going through some things."

"We're all going through it, Isabella. You're an adult, I can't drag ya down to the doctor kicking and screaming like I used to," he chuckled, referencing the numerous visits resulting in referrals for more _tolerant _pediatric care. My parents enthusiastically waved a white flag once I outgrew physical manipulation. I'd neglected annual care ever since. "Mom said not to share this, but Jeanette has terminal cancer."

"Mom's sister?" I asked, unable to draw upon a single memory of my mother's estranged sibling.

"You're mother's gonna be fine, but it started another spiral. I just want you to be safe. You know, for your Mother's sake," Charlie said, clearly reaching the end of his emotional allocation.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, unsure how to console my stoic father.

"I'm not," he deadpanned, swiftly finishing his can of Natural Light. Charlie winked before tossing the remote into my lap. "We've only got basic cable. I'm glad you're home, Cadet."

I wished my father a simple goodnight as he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I frowned at the unappealing assortment of canned soup, instant coffee, and pancake mix. My throat burned slightly, but the pain in my stomach was becoming unbearable.

The refrigerator held offerings for sandwiches and not much else. I inspected a small tupperware tucked beneath various packages of lunchmeat. Within the sealed bowl a raw steak laid marinating in a pinkish liquid. My tongue shot out to moisten my parched lips.

Before I could reason the dangers of ingesting raw meat, red tinged myoglobin spilled down my chin and into the plush fibers of my sweater. The liquid that managed to land on my tongue flooded my brain with dopamine. I felt giddy and warm, invincible and ravenous all at once.

The molecular protein didn't last long as I messily satiated a curious new thirst. Similar to cigarettes, I began to think about _next time. _Shaking my head, I mentally forbid future binges as I chucked the entire tupperware into the trash. Renee would check me into an asylum before allowing me to subsist on a diet of oxidized enzymes.

Defeated, I crawled back to my bed where I peacefully dreamt of a glowing-eyed, humanoid monster with a penchant for bloodshed.


	3. When You Die

**When You Die**

* * *

The next morning I awoke to the pungent odor of mothballs wafting from our forsaken pull-down attic. Mom's well used house shoes were perched at eye level as my bedroom door squeaked open.

"Oh, honey. Watch the_ thing_," she called, motioning to the ladder obstructing my path.

"The ladder?" I offered.

"Hey, I'm old," she playfully scolded, wrestling a bank box incorrectly labeled _'Halloween'._ "Can I pass this down?"

I nodded, pulling the box into my grasp. Several neatly folded sweaters laid inside. "Are these mine?"

"They belonged to Grandma Baker," Renee smiled, toying with the sleeve of a navy blue cardigan. "I figured we could jumpstart your closet at home."

I felt self conscious under her expectant gaze.

"You've got some color in your cheeks," she commented before excusing herself to serve breakfast.

Charlie and Renee discussed our plans for the day as I pushed a pancake around my plate. Daydreams of a sanguinary midnight snack danced behind my closed eyelids as I regretfully chewed the soggy bread.

"There's a great new galleria in Port Angeles," Renee suggested, carefully preparing each bite with an equal amount of butter and syrup.

I hummed, feigning excitement as my insides violently rebelled against her classic breakfast offering. Following a particularly dry mouthful, I ceremoniously laid my fork over the plate, indicating I was finished. Renee grimaced upon seeing my second untouched meal in just as many days.

"Why don't you get yourself dressed. Your father and I will clean up here," she offered, busying herself with the positioning of a ceramic set of salt and pepper shakers.

I excused myself to the bathroom, desperate to empty the meagre contents of my stomach without disturbing my parents. Pink tinged tears splashed in the toilet as I held my hair in a makeshift ponytail above my head. Minutes later the nausea passed, leaving anger and embarrassment in its wake. My fingers shook as I pressed the toilet's lever.

With my clammy forehead flush with the icy porcelain of our clawfoot bath, I contemplated my discussion with Charlie last night: a gentle reminder to ease my mother's suffering. A familial request that I ignored to, instead, feel sorry for myself. I'd become shamefully lost in the throes of adolescent trauma.

I wrenched the shower handle to the right. Our fifty square foot bathroom quickly billowed with steam as the water approached scalding temperatures. Stepping directly into the stream, I motionlessly allowed the water to cascade down my back until my skin turned pink and blotchy. Renee's hibiscus cleanser foamed as I vigorously scrubbed the grime from my body.

As the final suds of aromatic soap rinsed down the drain, the water began to cool, as though giving me the hook for being wasteful. Wintry air attacked my bare limbs as I toweled my hair, addressing my skin after. My teeth chattered, narrowly catching my tongue as I bent over to dry my legs. A warm, salty liquid coated my tongue; an involuntary growl bubbled in my throat.

I rubbed my fist across the hazy mirror to reveal the staggering image of a devastatingly statuesque woman. She held an uncanny likeness to me. Inches below the tormented irises of a stranger, vermillion blood oozed from _my_ round lips, dripping onto the white hexagonal tile at my feet. I wiped the trickle from my mouth, expecting to see a split lip, but what I discovered extended well beyond the confines of the human condition.

Twin fangs had grown in place of my premolars, mercilessly forcing their menacing points to align with my incisors.

"What the hell?" I whispered, prodding the tip with my hand. A crimson bead welled in the center of my index finger, though I felt no pain. "This is impossible."

Reptiles regenerate teeth their entire lives, but there had never been a single report of a mammalian polyphyodont. Minimal effort in my entry level biology courses had confirmed as much. My eyes darted between the subtle curve of my canines and the gash stitching itself together on my fingertip. _"This is impossible."_

After thoroughly cleaning all traces of gore, I dressed myself in one of Grandma's old sweaters and my trusty Levi's.

Renee was impatiently drumming her fingers on the dining table when I emerged from the second floor. "Ready, honey? I thought you drowned."

* * *

The fifty-six mile drive to Port Angeles was silent, save for Renee's compact disc of eclectic jazz ballads. I was thankful for the distracting drum patterns and brassy solos as my bicuspids made it difficult to speak without injuring the tender skin of my mouth. Chuckling darkly, I anguished over the eventuality of communication.

"What's so funny over there?" Renee asked, misinterpreting my ominous grin.

I turned my face to the window to block her view before responding. "Just an animal outside." More lies, but Renee seemed satisfied with my dismissive answer.

The fangs were altogether subtle, but I worried my mother would notice how unnatural my heart shaped profile had become. My teeth were too white, too feral looking to flash at will. Not to mention, they cut like a hot knife through butter. I shuddered at the thought of being within kissing proximity to human skin. Blood pounded in my ears as I ignored the unyielding metronome of my mother's pulse.

"Have you heard from Jacob," she asked, raising her right hand from the wheel to rest on my knee.

"My phone's been off."

"I see," she swallowed loudly. "Mrs. Black called 'round today."

I momentarily blanched, remembering Jacob's own flesh and blood knew exactly where I'd run off to. "Oh?"

"I guess he's pretty torn up over this."

"Me too," I snarled. Renee's hand jumped back to the wheel, either frightened or repulsed by my sudden outburst. "He has _Kate._"

"Just as well, I suppose," she quipped. If my tantrum disturbed Renee, she recovered quickly. "At least I get to spend time with my baby girl."

Port Angeles' newly constructed Maritime Galleria sat tucked between the Salish Sea and Front Street, a small shopping hub. Renee expertly parallel parked her Subaru twenty feet from the main entrance, wasting no time as she skipped inside with her reusable totes. I nearly smashed my face into the concrete attempting to match her pace.

The Galleria was abuzz with holiday shoppers. Anxiety paralyzed my gait as an devastating ache in my soft palate radiated through my parched throat. Flames engulfed every muscle and cell, swallowing failed to temper the heat attacking my nervous system. Ambrosia taunted my nostrils, the scent of something spicy and citrusy welcomed a resurgence of my juvenile bruxism.

Wind chimes made from seashells garnered Renee's attention immediately, she veered into the diminutive boutique. The soles of my tennis shoes stayed glued to the rubber welcome mat as my control slipped through clenched fingers like fine sand.

I glanced at Renee, lost in conversation with the elderly store clerk, my presence had clearly slipped her mind.

A biting gust of wind hit my back as the door swung ajar. Several shoppers filtered inside, their body heat stoked the fire in my chest. Fortunately, the crisp air peeled back the fog of delirium from my brain long enough to identify an escape route. A young man howled in pain as I shoulder checked his muscular frame in my haste to retreat.

Once outside, I swallowed lungfuls of frozen air to anchor my mind in reality. Blood flow steadily returned to my waxen knuckles as the throbbing toothache of my mind receded to the dark corner of my psyche that spawned it.

"Isabella Swan?" a shrill voice called from nearby. "I haven't seen you since,_ like_, last summer."

My high school's very own antihero, Lauren Mallory, emerged from the familiar green facade of Odyssey Bookshop. Lauren's dishwater blonde hair was tied together in a messy top bun, and her stomach distended slightly over the waistline of skintight designer jeans. She carried a generic shopping bag as she crossed over Front Street.

"Lauren," I greeted through tight lips. Her expression became wary, surely experiencing the waves of anxiety rolling from my core.

"Are you... How have you been? How's Portland?" She pressed, absentmindedly running her free hand across her pregnant belly.

More lies spilled from my mouth. "I'm good, it's good."

"How long are you here for?"

I paused. Lauren cocked her head to the side, expectantly awaiting my reply.

"Just a few weeks. I'm staying with my family."

"Oh, _well..."_

"Congratulations," I said, my forced tone awkwardly juxtaposed against the cheery idiom.

Lauren flushed. "Thank you! It's so crazy right? Don't get pregnant if you care about your body," she laughed.

I politely assured her that she looked beautiful. Round and fertile was undeniably preferable to the harsh lines of my skeletal frame, brittle hair, and sallow complexion.

"It was such a shock after Nathan left me," she volunteered unprompted. Her grin never faltered.

Unsure of how I was meant to respond to Lauren's proclamation, I worried the delicate fibers of Grandma Baker's burgundy sweater between my fingers. Our stories mirrored each other a staggering amount. Yet here I stood, the visage of death apparent in every pore; while Lauren was a textbook definition of feminine vitality. "I'm _sorry."_

"There's more fish in the sea," she sighed, a hint of longing colored her tone. "Have you seen the Roquelaure family yet?"

The surname was unfamiliar to me, an odd revelation to have in a town the size of Forks, Washington. In my collegiate literature studies I'd happened upon the name precisely twice. Roquelaure roughly translated to _'good for nothing'. _An allusion to The Master Thief, an unsavory character in French folklore. Later, Anne Rice adopted the pseudonym to pen a racy retelling of Sleeping Beauty. I'd mostly ignored that lesson, preferring less contemporary literature.

Lauren stared into the depths of my black irises, once again waiting for me to speak. "Uh, no. I just landed yesterday."

Lauren closed the distance between us, leaning into my personal space as though her words held confidential intelligence. "City boy doctors and their wives. They have a weird luxury _compound-cul de sac-thing_ over on Nottingham. But they're so _gorgeous. _I'm on a waitlist to have one as my OB in April."

Their housing development piqued my interest. Nottingham Way had primarily been barren nature preserves when Jacob and I relocated to Oregon, not lavish housing.

Lauren prattled on about asking Doctor Masen Roquelaure on a date after her baby's birth, though something about her girlish demeanor had me convinced Dr. Roquelaure was only being admired from afar. A different tactic than I would expect from the _motivated _Mallory bloodline.

"It was nice catching up, Isabella." Lauren crooned my full name, throwing her swollen arms around my shoulders. Her pulse steadily danced beneath the layers separating our skin. My muscles instinctually tensed. The dizzying dissonance of her delectable scent and my inability to ignore it waged a war over evolutionary wills. Life versus death, the intricacies of getting away with murder, how deep should a grave be?

Lauren sensed my uneasiness and slowly recoiled from our embrace. "I hope you get the help you need," she murmured, her knowing gaze downcast. She waddled in the direction of a silver Toyota Prius with a 'Baby on Board' placard suctioned to the rear window.

My joints unlocked as the breeze cleansed all traces of the nectar engorging Lauren's carotid artery. The siren song of invisible temptation had irrevocably rewired the functionality of my brain. Chaotic heartbeats littered the small port town, their coordinates discernible between large gusts of wind from the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I concurrently realized and rejected what my instincts demanded. Squeezing my eyes into a hard line, I relished in visions of crimson spilt over delicate white skin. Milky teeth buried deep, thriving on the lifeblood of an unfortunate nobody.

The captivating trance splintered to pieces when my back hit frozen concrete, effectively forcing all the air from my lungs. Grey slush seeped through the large knit of my sweater. Vibrant blurs and corresponding voices echoed in the distance, mostly frantic pleas for medical attention and first aid provisions. Closing my eyes once more, a bright light caressed the apples of my cheeks. It swarmed my head like a deprivation tank, drowning out the noise and confusion and lulling me into peaceful oblivion.

* * *

Erratic beeping of miscellaneous monitors tugged at my consciousness and the skin of my chest. White shades covered the windows, thoroughly disguising the time of day. The stench of bleach clung to every surface, it burned the sensitive skin of my nose.

Panic settled in when I recognized the reinforced police issue zip-cuffs pinching the skin of my wrists. A nurses call system sat at the fingertips of my right hand, I quickly palmed the oblong plastic device, smashing my thumb repeatedly against the button.

A middle aged nurse with wavy salt and pepper hair pushed the room's only door aside, fluorescent light poured in from the hallway. "Ms. Swan? I'm afraid I cannot administer another sedative until-"

A soft knock from the hall interrupted the nurse.

"Rebecca, why don't you relieve Ben from the lab," a man in a white laboratory coat announced, his flat black eyes flashing like shooting stars on a moonless night. The nurse, _Rebecca,_ nodded; her soft waves tumbling forward to block her empty gaze. The exchange was void of emotion and altogether unsettling.

The strange doctor turned his attention to me. His charcoal irises mimicked my own, but his ashen skin held a healthy, rosy hue. Lithe muscles rippled beneath the tailored fabric of a pristine white coat; embroidered black letters introduced the man as _Dr. E M Roquelaure._

Dr. Roquelaure was the single most gorgeous man I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. His unruly copper hair alternated strands of brilliant red and gold. A square jaw chiseled from marble framed a stark patrician nose; balanced perfectly by full lips.

Those lips immediately flashed a slight grin at my wide stare. I blanched. "Am I imagining this?"

"What exactly do you mean by _'this,'" _he frowned.

"Where am I?"

"Olympic Medical Center in Port Angeles."

"What time is it? Where is my mom?" My cardiac monitor spiked, sounding an alarm to alert my nurse.

Dr. Roquelaure gracefully crossed the room in three strides, fiddling with the offending machine until the ringing ceased. "No need to fret, Bella."

"How do you know my name?"

"Your chart," he politely deadpanned, pulling an oversized clipboard from the foot of the bed. "I also promised your mother we'd transfer you to Forks General tomorrow morning."

"She went home?"

"At my request."

The room fell silent, but murmuring heartbeats permeated the thin drywall. Dr. Roquelaure gently closed the door, deadening the sound.

"It is excruciating," he whispered, right hand firmly pressed over his heart.

I swallowed the saliva pooling in my mouth. "I don't know-"

"You hear them, the heart beats?"

The truth caught in my throat, nestled behind the familiar burning that threatened my sanity. Was this ethereal man experiencing the same phenomena as me? Did he struggle with thoughts and dreams of unrelenting psychosis?

"If I confess a secret, will you return the favor?" Dr. Roquelaure eyes softened, his black irises glowing with compassion. I nodded. "My given name is Edward Anthony Masen," he paused, gauging my reaction. Lauren's description of Masen Roquelaure fit _Edward_ exactly, it's no wonder she'd been smitten from a distance.

"Lots of people change their names."

"I've changed my name on hundreds of occasions."

"That must be confusing for the post office."

Edward snickered, a forlorn smile haunted his expression.

"Am I speaking with Edward Hyde or Dr Jekyll?" I joked, warranting another laugh from the stoic doctor.

Edward shifted uncomfortably, a sigh escaped his lips.

"I've been... _hypersensitive_," I explained. "I fell in the woods last week and my doctor in Portland diagnosed a concussion."

"What do you remember of being in the woods?"

I pondered his question carefully. Jacob and I had clearly fought over dinner, he'd been a moron to admit as much in Officer Ryan's company. Human frailty filled in the rest; I left for a cigarette, hit my head, and returned two days later with post traumatic stress symptoms. A tragic, yet common tale regaled by countless inexperienced backpackers.

"Only waking up with bruises and a migraine," I admitted, recalling the agonizing trek from Reed Canyon to West Woodstock Road. "I promise I'm not hiding anything."

"I believe you."

"Just run whatever tests you need and I'll be on my way. I really hope my parents aren't garnishing their wages for this private room."

Edward's thousand watt smile illuminated the shady hospital suite as his black hole gaze threatened to swallow me whole. Metronomic clock ticks recorded the passage of several silent minutes, his posture still as a statue carved from stone. "No tests. You still haven't answered my question."

"Oh?"

"Do you hear the heart next door?"

My attention focused on the delicate flutter of a young child's pulse. I wretched and salivated simultaneously. Edward frowned.

"Isabella... _Bella,"_ he exhaled, tousling the bronze curls carefully tucked behind his left ear. "I am speaking to you as a young man that was never given a choice.

My stomach sank as Edward began an apologetic interlude that excluded any notion of an explanation.

"You are fortunate to have the choice to deny immortality."

"Are you off your meds, dude?" Lauren had neglected to mention Masen Roquelaure was beyond delusional by clinical standards. "I'll call security," I threatened. My wrists struggled against the plastic holding them in place.

"Bella, an immeasurably tragic incident happened in those woods," Edward, _masen,_ whoever; stepped forward once more to loop his cool fingers under the restraints. With a swift tug they fell to the laminate floor.

"You know what happened to me? Were you there? Was Jacob there?" Panic settled into my chest, each exhale constricted my lungs until I could barely breathe a word.

"Bella, you died."


	4. Vitamin C

**Vitamin C**

* * *

_"Bella, you died."_

_Silence._

"You're a lunatic," I growled, raising my newly freed hands to push Edward from my bedside.

"No legacy is as rich as honesty," he quoted, calmly resisting the effects of my outrage. "You died, Bella. Roughly two days later you _changed_. Do you crave for blood?"

"No, that's impossible_._" Yet I longed for even a single drop.

"I suggest you accept my explanation, Bella. You cannot make a sound decision without knowledge of what we are," Edward said, an air of antiquated sovereignty colored his tone.

"I'm sorry, _what?" _

As my voice approached an ear piercing decibel, the door creaked open to allow a slender blonde doctor to slip inside. Relief flooded my body until I realised their uncanny obsidian eye color. The men seemed familiar as well. He stood half a head shorter than Edward, but clearly had celebrated more sun revolutions.

"You forget yourself. I did not ask you to torture the young woman, my son. Simply to provide an understanding of what is to come," the blonde man chided.

Edward grimaced. "Humanity is not to be toyed with. I loathe to claim a human life while the choice exists."

"Who are you?" I addressed the blonde man, my brain unable to process multiple pointed glances between the otherworldly men. Two sets of pitch irises centered on me. "I can't be _dead_ if I'm talking to you."

The blonde man's expression relaxed as he turned to my bedside. "I am Carlisle Cullen," he greeted, extending a wan palm. I ignored the gesture. "My son is the straightforward type. I do apologize for his manner."

"Straightforward is one way to put it..." I mumbled, rolling my eyes in the direction of the young doctor's son. Edward noiselessly excused himself to the hall.

"You're a literature major," Carlisle smiled. A joyous declaration, not a question.

"Yes."

"You received your certificates in spring? How exciting it must have been," he exclaimed, the smile growing to include perfect twin fangs.

"Edward's your son?" I asked, unsure of where Carlisle's line of petty questioning would lead. I needed to be taken seriously. "You seem _young_ to have a son that is also a doctor. I mean no disrespect."

Carlisle thoughtfully considered his answer before responding. "None taken, my dear. Edward joined me just after The Great War. I assure you, despite his age, he is a fine physician."

I blanched. The Great War had been waged over one hundred years in the past. Fork's new prodigal neighbors were thoroughly out of their fucking minds.

"I can see you are confused by our timeline."

"I'm still hung up on the idea that your son thinks I died last week," I deadpanned. "I might be concussed, but I'm definitely not dead. Ghosts and zombies don't pay rent in my world."

"I can confirm the coin of a vampire is of the same value to a mortal," Carlisle replied, not a hint of mirth detected in the quirk of his tawny brow.

_Vampire?_ This well respected and established man believed himself to be a bloodsucking creature of horror fiction?

"The truth often lies in two extremes," he continued. "Immortality is fantasy to the majority population. Yet, here I stand nearly four hundred years after my birth. Forever in the springtime of life, unable to shift, and considerably _other_ to my peers. This is one choice before you, Isabella."

"Bella," I corrected. "And when I go home? What will happen when I don't choose your _way__._"

"You'd succumb to mortal death. You've been given another chance at life, Bella. I implore you to consider a home with my family," Carlisle smiled once more.

Despite his confident and sincere demeanor, I still lacked any context for their mysterious quid pro quo. "Tomorrow afternoon I'm going to be released from Forks General," my voice wavered under the doctor's scrutiny. "I'm cool with forgetting this ever happened."

"I am sorry, Bella. You are experiencing an advanced weakened state. We must stabilise your vitals with this treatment."

"A treatment? You can fix _this?_"

"No... you must consume blood," he explained matter of factly. "You won't find it unpleasant, I assure you."

Edward materialised at my bedside following a swift click of the door's electromechanical lock. In his left hand he white knuckled a ten ounce graduated dosage cup. The stainless steel container emanated the subdued fragrance of chilled blood; not potent enough to warrant lust, but I observed a momentary flash of Edward's elongated canines against his waxen bottom lip. _Temptation_. His eyes begged me to refuse the offering.

"What is that?"

"I have followed Carlisle's directive. Donated human blood," Edward mumbled, thrusting the cup on a rolling tray before careening it to my bedside. "I will serve our coven, but you cannot demand I bear witness. Excuse me, father."

Edward disappeared the way he arrived, in a blur of shadow and silence. The desolate expanse left in his absence swayed my attention from Carlisle's apologetic grin. It pulled me in like a vacuum, a black hole shattering the very fabric of my cell structure. Edward's sudden abandonment stung, though not as badly as the fire scorching the delicate veins supplying oxygen to my lungs.

I fiendishly craved the cup's contents. A wave of viscous crimson would readily quench the flames, but the impossible questions swarming my head paralysed my twitching fists from handling the beaker. The tortured face of a moribund woman reflected across the metal like a distorted carnival mirror.

"The infected blood inside you will continue to weaken your immune system. Without proper sustenance, your body will grow frail, inflaming your heart and lungs. Often likened to expedited heart disease in contemporary journals. A hemorrhagic stroke typically occurs within hours."

A part of my brain nagged me to trust the clinically petrifying diagnoses from Dr. Carlisle Cullen. His demeanor was charming and profound, an example of textbook bedside manner from a tenured employee. However, his vampire theory and the embroidery adorning his white coat, _C. Roquelaure, _declared my trust utterly misplaced.

Edward had been boorish to his father, also decidedly less likely to sugarcoat despite the fantastical narrative they campaigned. Were they performing a good cop, bad cop routine? Did Carlisle expect me to fall into his arms after receiving the cold shoulder from Edward?

Carlisle's deep gaze flickered to the laminate tray. The cup beckoned for my fingertips to brush the polished steel, I buried my hands into the soft foam mattress to halt an involuntary advance. "Can I have a moment alone?"

"Yes, of course." Carlisle closed the door behind him, sparing a troubled glance over his broad shoulder.

The aroma saturated every corner of the room, causing saliva to rapidly flood my mouth. Panic seized my throat. I choked and gagged, sputtering until my focus centered on the stainless chalice. Like chugging a cool glass of water on the hottest day in August, I gave into temptation and greedily finished Edward's forbidden offering.

Tannic with a hint of spice, the blood quenched my coughing fit with all encompassing warmth. A pinkish glow radiated from the translucent skin of my chest, it slowly spread to the tips of my fingers and toes. The metal cup crumbled in my grasp, screeching against my unrelenting palm. I shuddered, though not from chilled temperature.

Unnamed colors hijacked my vision, causing fragmented rainbows and other such distractions. Deafening heartbeats burst like cannons in every direction. The pandemonius symphony ignited primal agitation; enough to rocket my body across the linoleum and into Edward's awkward embrace.

"You've no idea the trouble this will cause," he snapped, gathering my heaving shoulders in his hands. His disappointment sobered my frenzy.

Ruddy tears stained my light blue hospital smock, a few rolled onto Edward's pristine lab coat. Unmistakable disgust colored his face. Embarrassment and shame entered my bloodstream like an icy hypodermic needle. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my strangled words a terrified plea. "Make it stop."

"Carlisle has requested I accompany you while he arranges a car to Forks."

"I'm going home?"

"You will stay with my family. You will live as we do," his fingertips dug into the flesh of my upper arms.

"You're kidnapping me?" My lower lip quivered as my youthful bubble of fictitious safety burst. "You can't take me. My dad's ex-military. He... He'll find your dad," I threatened. The _cop's daughter_ approach scared off most petty threats, though I'd never used it on potential kidnappers.

Edward chuckled, his tired eyes closing as though listening to silent orders. "He'd best not."

My defeated sobs quieted as I listened to the clamor of Olympia's newest medical building. The deep rooted instinct to bite and rip and _destroy _caused a feral snarl to build in my chest.

Edward's eyes sprung open, sadness and curiosity brimming like unshed tears. "I am sorry you're in pain. What are you thinking?"

"I just want to go home," I lamented. The body I possessed was not my own. My limbs, once clumsy and awkward, moved with alarming fluidity. What had the doctor given me? Why did rare hues color the world? Ambient sound and rhythm mixed to heightened levels; the occasional skid of a rubber sneaker pierced my ear drums with crippling ferocity.

"Does your throat burn?"

I nodded.

"How does that make you feel?"

_Like I want to rip out the throat of the patient next door. _"Are you a shrink?"

"Will you run if I let go of your arms?"

I shook my head like a petulant child. Edward smiled reassuringly, though his attempt was half-hearted at best. His hands slowly withdrew to his deep coat pockets.

"Bella, you must understand that my father only wishes to help you-"

"I might run," I confided, a captivating tempo pulling at my center of gravity. My jaw ached. Edward clasped his left hand over my shoulder. "_Why_ do I want to run?"

Edward stared in disbelief, his bottom lip trembling beneath unspoken words. "You are the first to ask why." I furrowed my brow. Father and son had a penchant for vague riddles. "I can help you," he sighed, drawing an emerald switchblade from his pocket.

I recoiled at the site of Edward's knife, but his firm grasp kept my feet planted inches from his cognac loafers. With expert precision Edward lifted the blade to the skin above his ulnar artery. A inch wide gash dripping crimson painted his ivory wrist milliseconds later.

"A full stomach will make your journey more... _straightforward."_

* * *

My unholy ribbon cutting ceremony into vampiredom had been a hasty escape from a second story window preceding morning shift change. Pastel yellow and pink mingled above shadowy clouds, my bare feet ghosted through a small thicket camouflaging an unpaved service road. Edward charged the rear passenger door of a black SUV, pulling it open as he claimed shotgun. I shuffled into the black leather interior, careful to remain modest despite my tattered hospital gown.

A brawny man with a wavy crop of brunette locks risked a glance over his shoulder before shifting into drive. "You didn't give her clothes?"

Edward sneered at his cohort, dialing an unsaved unsaved number on his prehistoric flip phone. "Alice."

I could hear the clear soprano voice of a young woman through Edward's line. His face remained neutral.

"Due west," he answered, checking the dash-mounted navigation system. "Aye, follow the service road along the docks." C_lick. _

Impossibly detailed green canopies passed to my left, blue crashing into white at my right. Memories of semiannual road trips with Renee and Charlie haunted the dustiest corners of my mind.

The driver feigned a cough to catch my attention. A glimpse of my ashen profile flashed across the rearview mirror. Edward's dried blood had tinged my lips bright cherry, my tongue instinctively flicked over the swollen skin.

"Be_lla_," the brunette man exclaimed, cartoonishly emphasizing the dual syllables. "I hope my dear brother has been a gentleman," he chided, rolling both eyes into the mirror. "I am Emmett."

Fresh blood bloomed in my cheeks. My lips against Edward's wrist, my teeth grazing the tender flesh of his forearm; the act had been strangely intimate, but certainly routine for vampires? "Uh, yes. Nice to meet you," I stuttered, diverting my gaze to the mud encrusted floor mats.

"Tame for a new guy, eh?" The large vampire turned to Edward. A silent exchange over the center console forced my attention upward once again. Edward shook his head, another peculiar answer to a silent question. I wondered if my hearing was faulty. "Well, ain't that something."

A consistent speed of eighty miles per hour had us in Forks less than thirty minutes later. Emmett careened the car onto an unmarked dirt road that dead-ended before a gem of post-modern construction. Whole beams of spruce, glass, and sheet metal blended and blurred into the forest. A fantasy a la Swiss Family Robinson and other such titles. A river's tide bubbled under an inch of ice nearby, dormant flower boxes lined every window and walkway. I balked at the organic beauty of the Cullen's compound. An unobtrusive ode to Forks and the creatures that reside here; genuine poetry in architecture. It's no wonder the reservation had granted building permits for their homestead.

As a child, I would ride my cousin's hand-me-down bike down Nottingham Way to collect tadpoles from the Calawah river: unrecognizable today, as am I. Century old branches decked with budding leaves and nests, a warm breeze through the holes in my helmet. With a corresponding shovel and pail set adorning my purple handlebars, I would brave the treacherous road to ignorantly devastate an entire ecosystem for sport. Not a single tadpole made it home in my trusty bucket. Fifteen year later, I found myself making nearly the same death march.

"Are you well?" Edward asked, pulling my door open with a gentle bow.

I startled, inhaling the fresh air to organize my thoughts. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Edward briefly composed himself, looking once to the sky and back to me. "I am sorry."

Inside, two young women of opposing stature quietly gasped as I appeared behind Edward's broad shoulders.

"Poor dear," one said, her caramel waves and soft curves reminded me of Renee in my early childhood. My lower lip trembled. "Come with me, honey. Let's get you dressed." The woman clothed me in her embrace as she lead us through a hall of windows to a deluxe master sweet. "I'm _mom_ here in the wild west," she laughed, the sound carried like tiny bells. "But they all call me 'Esme.'"

Esme ushered me to a plush king sized bed, taking a moment to tuck a stray curl behind my ear before fluttering into a large closet. The room was strangely... _human._ Recent family pictures on every surface, _his and hers_ bedside tables with matching lamps and alarm clocks.

Seconds later Esme emerged from the closet with an azure knit dress. "You're a hair smaller than I, but this wraps around with a belt. Definitely better than a hospital frock."

I demurely thanked the kind women before she left with the promise to greet her husband and return.

The dress appeared to be vintage, no later that nineteen-sixty. Following trends had never been a hobby of mine. I donned the luxurious fabric as a robe first, then tied the soft belt to cinch my waist. From the stylish collar framing my throat to the knee brushing swing skirt, the dress accentuated every curve I'd come to love as a twenty-something woman. Esme was silly to loan such a dress, especially to a stranger, but I was thankful nonetheless.

As pledged, Esme returned moments later with a smile. "Aren't you darling," she cooed, smoothing the hair at my back. Those words spoken by another would convey condescension, but her pure of heart temper revealed a holier sentiment. I relaxed into her touch, relishing in the infectious _mother-daughter_ bond forming between us. Accepting Esme's love was as simple as breathing. As simple as loving my own mother.

"It's beautiful. Thank you, Esme," I blushed, fidgeting with the sloppy bow at my waist.

"A dress must follow the body of a woman," she quoted, tousling the fabric at my knee. A smile played at her lips, touching her eyes with lines of laughter. Involuntarily, I mirrored the action. "My family is eager to greet you."

"Oh, I guess..."

"Only if you're ready, dear. I will admit they are an eclectic bunch! Edward could barely function beyond nineteen-forty, and dare I divulge the rantings of my own partner," a nervous laugh escaped her lips. "We have our trials, _of course_, but we're better together-"

"I'd love to," I interrupted her monologue, my hesitation had wounded Esme's familial pride. "I'd love to meet your family."

The Cullens had gathered in a cozy split level room filled with books and leather upholstery. I caught Edward's attention first, his posture straightened as I perched on the arm of the chesterfield he reclined on.

"Welcome to your new home, Bella," Carlisle wrapped a sweater clad arm around Esme.

To their right, Emmett shared a loveseat with Aphrodite herself. Pale blonde waves framed thick brows and lashes, tensed muscles and slender curves were evenly distributed over lengthy limbs. The sneer marring her lips couldn't hold a candle to her _everything else._

"Emmett and Edward, of course," Carlisle gestured proudly to his sons.

"Rosalie is Emmett's wife," Esme explained, smiling at their entwined fingers and matching rings. "Alice and Jasper joined us over forty years ago," she motioned to an ethereal slip of a woman and her rugged counterpart sharing an oversized armchair.

"Bella's fresh meat now," Emmett guffawed, dramatically slapping his knee. "No more taking the mick." Emmett attempted a celebratory high-five, but Jasper remained statuesque next to Alice's eager frame.

"No teasing," Edward warned his siblings, his tone firm and final. He solemnly shook his head, a clandestine reply to yet another silent question.

"If I recall, _brother,_ you enjoyed hazing Jasper until the mid aughts," Rosalie challenged, her icy gaze locked on Edward.

"Subtlety, thy name is Rosalie," he sneered, rising from the couch. "Excuse me, I will return for rounds." He attempted a curt bow, the antiquated pleasantry appeared rigid and lost in translation. Milliseconds later, Edward launched himself from a south facing doorwall to disappear into the early morning light.

"Where did-"

"To hunt," Rosalie replied, her tone venomous. "Do not forget what we are. What _you_ chose," she snapped, ascending the stairs at a dramatically human pace.

My nervous energy drained, pooling onto the ground in shame. Terror and conflict plagued every facet of my life now. A fight with Jacob ended our relationship, a cigarette break ended my semi-conventional life. Charlie recognized death and decay on my face instantly, he swore off the pain it caused my doting mother to watch her only child wither away. To know she's doing nothing about it. Even despicable Lauren Mallory felt the sin burning from my core. A girl who once teased me over a period stain in the ninth grade had approached me as holy Mother Teresa. Hell was freezing over and Edward, the only Cullen male who empathized, was well on his way to kill an innocent human for breakfast. Acclimating to my new life, I was not.

The proverbial cherry on the metaphorical cake was the bloodlust that skewed my moral compass. I, too, wanted to kill a man for breakfast.

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble," I turned to Esme, her pink lips set into a neutral line.

"Rose deeply grieves the loss of her mortality, as do we all to some degree," Carlisle explained, leading his wife to a vacant chair. "I apologise for the bickering, however. Edward and Rose butt heads often."

I nodded, feeling uncomfortable within my own skin. "So... what now?"

* * *

My first day with the Cullens consisted of endless interrogation. Carlisle and I spent three hours in his home office organizing my _end-of-life_ affairs. What were my goals? Did I wish to go missing, run away, or turn up dead with the assistance of a scorched cadaver? Were there any personal belongings I desired?

Carlisle recommended a clean break from my human life, though he understood my hesitation to fully abandon everyone. We compromised with a letter to my parents:

* * *

_Dear Mom & Dad,_

_I'll call you when I can. I love you. _

_Bella xo_

* * *

I had envisioned writing an autobiographical eulogy of sorts. Every draft included disgusting truths about Jacob and a fake concussion. Charlie would recognize the tenor and call bullshit.

My second draft had been a romantic explanation of my blood fetish as a genetic sickness, one that required in-patient rehabilitation. I'd recover and go on to live a very, _very_ long life. Mother's loved their children unconditionally, right? Renee would be thrilled to have a daughter at the top of predatory food chain, eternally safe from cancer or car accidents.

Carlisle proofread my final draft before tucking it into a plain white envelope. Alice would plant the note on Renee's pillow this afternoon before retrieving my pathetic list of belongings.

"We plan to relocate in the summer," he said, effortlessly hefting a leather folio from his desk drawer. "To avoid suspicion, Edward and I must fulfill our contracts with Forks General."

"I'm sorry to uproot you so quickly. Your home is beautiful."

"Esme will be delighted to hear your sentiments," he smiled, thumbing through the ancient tome. He paused to appreciate a polaroid of a large craftsman home. "Rochester, New York. We built this house in nineteen-forty-nine. Two months after completion, we rebuilt in Calgary."

"That must be... very expensive," I commented, unsure how to respond in kind to their lavish lifestyle.

Carlisle chuckled, flipping to the front quarter of his record book. "The investment is sound in the long term," he agreed.

"Where will you go next?"

"Esme is dusting off tabled blueprints for a cabin in Delaware, I believe," he smiled at the mention of his wife. "An additional bedroom will need to be drawn up."

"That is very kind, but..." I drawled, focusing on the dainty snow beginning to fall outside. _Would Edward be Cold?_

"But?" Carlisle mimicked my inflection, followed my gaze.

"I don't want to impose."

"No imposition," Carlisle corrected. "Consider us even. Four women, Four men. Rosalie will come around when she finds a friend in you."

My thoughts wandered to a copper haired vampire with a sternly set square jaw. His offering of blood had been a truce, an olive branch under duress. Otherwise, his repulsion or pity had been palpable. Disdain for change, an unknown threat, or simply another body to share resources with had tainted our first impression. "And Edward?"

Carlisle chuckled lightly, closing the leather tome in a plomb of ancient dust. "Edward carries a chip on his shoulder. He spends many hours at the hospital with me, though. You should be fairly _comfortable_ here."


	5. Jekyll & Hyde

**Jekyll & Hyde**

* * *

When you become a vampire the world morphs into something parallel, something unrecognizable. Human memories creep away like deja vu. Anonymous colors accent breathtaking sunsets, chaotic dust motes dance before your sleepless and unblinking eyes despite the navy blue blackout curtains Alice hung yesterday. Synesthesia manipulated alluring sound into scent and vibration into paranoia. I was surrounded, escape thwarted time and time again by our friendly neighborhood bloodsuckers.

Esme had knocked on my door just before the owls began their nightly screeching, inviting me on a family hunting excursion at dawn, _whatever that meant_. I declined. For nearly forty minutes I'd been laying motionless atop a rollaway cot in her office listening to Emmett and Rosalie bicker over their _next _honeymoon. My restlessness tripled and quadrupled as midnight crept upon us the Wednesday after my vampiric initiation.

_"Our anniversary is January first,"_ Rosalie grumbled._ "I'm not going to Ireland."_

Apparently the Cullen's owned lavish properties around the globe. Why build a new residence in Delaware?"

_"Rosie, the sun's so hot in Barcelona,"_ Emmett whined, pausing to place a sweet kiss somewhere on her body. _"Fine."_

I rolled to my left, wrapping a down pillow around my head to block the sound. Debris and dust crumbled onto the cot as my elbow smashed through drywall. "Sorry," I muttered, aware of how whispers carried in the Cullen household.

I was beginning to unravel the intricacies of my strange vampire family. Their individual routines knit together a comfortable existence brimming with normalcy and devotion. I envied their solidarity in love, each relationship seemingly carved from weathered stone.

Esme donned a proper dressing gown most evenings as she prepared baked goods her family would never indulge. Because of this hobby the house often smelled of spices and raw flour, a sour marriage of flavors on my palate. Though it was comforting to hear pots and pans clanging up from the kitchen. With my eyes closed I dreamed of Renee.

Twice a week, Esme would play the dutiful housewife and drive to the hospital with a selection of pastries. The clack of her expensive heels had me convinced the visits were more to her husband's benefit than his peers.

Carlisle spent twelve out of twenty four hours, nearly five days a week at the Hospital. Primarily day shifts with an occasional graveyard, as to spend evenings with his beloved.

However, Carlisle took immense pride in his work, tenderly proclaiming his faith to Esme in their private moments. Regardless of his youthful appearance, he acted as the family's confidant, their _father_. His steadfast compassion was blind, he selflessly gifted an ear and a wise word to any conflict his children encountered.

Alice and Jasper were in the throes of developing a company with a specialty in fashion eyewear made from recycled plastic. At least, that's what I'd established from a heated argument over distribution of labor. Jasper desired a large team to amass recycled goods, to corner the less efficient competition into complacency. To the benefit of planet earth and their savings, Jasper pleaded with his bride to skew their original fashion empire plan. Alice cared less for the monopolization of designer recycling and more for the designs themselves, she demanded a large team of diverse applicants. The silent treatment forced Jasper to his knees after forty-eight hours.

Rosalie and Emmett occupied their time with classes at the University of Washington, Port Angeles. My alma mater. Emmett was minoring _horribly_ in Spanish, while Rosalie buried herself into the intense world of molecular biology.

My thoughts flickered to Jacob's own biology pursuits at U-Dub, PA. A forlorn sigh kicked drywall dust into the air.

Edward returned from the hospital each morning to shower and dress for his following shift. Like clockwork, the soft pad of worn cognac loafers would land on his balcony rail at five. By half five, he'd be parking in the hospital lot on Bogachiel Way two miles southeast. As Carlisle promised, Edward did extend a wide breadth. He purposefully utilised the spare bathroom on the main floor despite the Jack and Jill vanity connecting our living spaces. Carlisle didn't account for my supersonic ability to hear _everything _within a four mile radius.

On this particular morning, Edward arrived after dawn. He entered the front door smelling of pine and cold air with a hint of stale blood. The house remained still, not an echo of a greeting. The Cullens had silently withdrawn from the property to commence their scheduled outing.

Edward approached the louvre bathroom door connecting our rooms. A deep breath, then a knock. "Bella?" His voice was hoarse from misuse.

My pillow barrier flopped onto the mattress. Light streamed into the room, a tall silhouette cast over Esme's writing desk.

"You can come in."

Edward ignored the lightswitch as he stood at the foot of my bed. Bronze curls brushed gaunt cheekbones, the chaotic windblown shadows masking his alluring gaze. His lips quivered in silent prayer.

"What?" I asked, unable to decipher a word.

More curls tumbled forward with a miniscule head shake. "Would you like to hunt?"

"You missed the others," I explained, waving my hand toward the door. "And I don't think I'm ready to do... that."

He chuckled, a flash of perfect white teeth illuminated the room. "You'll starve."

"Promise?" Death appealed more than my urge to snap a man's neck. Were hunger strikes effective on vampires?

Another smile. "I hate to burden you with this news, Miss Swan, but you're already dead."

"I may be _undead_, Mister Masen, but I'm no murderer," I challenged, relishing in the distraction our macabre banter provided.

"Many of us refuse blood from the source," Edward explained, his voice heavy with unprocessed cynicism. "Donated blood will sustain you, and fortunately Carlisle has ensured a steady supply."

I began to wonder why the Cullens mentioned a hunting trip instead of dipping into their stash. Esme's invitation had painted a gruesome, blood soaked portrait in my mind. Seven vicious vampires prowling the countryside in search of secluded homes with large body counts. Now I imagined those same vampires in uniform balaclavas commiting a blood bank robbery

Edward sensed my confusion. "We hunt big game for sport."

"With guns?"

"Why don't I show you?" He extended an open palm in my direction.

I licked my lips, imagining the taste of Edward's blood sliding down my throat. Our hands intertwined as he hoisted me from the cot. "I'll watch."

"How voyeuristic."

* * *

I certainly felt like a voyeur as I watched Edward stalk a black bear head on. Muscles clenched beneath his pale blue button down, unprecedented excitement rushed a pale blush to my cheeks. I nearly tumbled from my aerial perch as a velvet growl alerted the bear to his imminent death. Before the unfortunate animal could identify his attacker Edward propelled them both into a nearby tree, tearing into the vulnerable flesh above an artery.

The bear's struggle ended ninety seconds later. Edward stepped away, wiping his lips over the back of his arm.

Anxiety paralyzed my fingers as they dug into the soft bark of the tree branch. My turn had arrived. Edward expected me to partake in his cruel game, to deny my humanity and subsist on the autonomous creatures around me. My empty stomach clenched, razor sharp teeth gnawed at my lower lip.

"Bella?"

An incoherent hum served as my reply.

"Would you come down here?" Edward's sweet tone eerily juxtaposed the blood spray staining his business casual attire. Like a barbarous prince on the cover of a fantasy romance paperback, I felt myself drawn to him, longing to taste the smear of blood behind his left ear.

Charlie's lifelong advice to run far and fast echoed in my vault of human memories, though, Edward's request had seemingly tipped the scale in regards to my loyalty. Charlie knew Bella Swan well, Edward understood Bella the vampire. "Blood spilt upon the ground cries out for more."

"I doubt Aeschylus would consider my actions a tragedy," Edward chuckled, a warm flush brightening his previously sullen complexion. "Please come back to earth, Bella."

My feet obeyed before my brain could process the fast approaching forest floor. I toppled forward, an unexpected misstep for a vampire to commit. Another velvety snicker paused the lazy beat of my heart.

"You're talking to a cop's daughter," I warned, my tone playful. "And hunting season ended a few weeks ago."

Edward extended his hand, lifting me from the ground. "I do recall you mentioning your parentage once or twice." A comfortable silence accented by the beautiful white rapids of Sol Duc River followed the loss of our connection.

Edward looked boyish in the morning sunlight, I cocked my head to better assess his curious stare. Wild obsidian pupils, a strong jaw stained crimson at the corner of his full lower lip. Where had such a beautiful man come from? How did he meet this unfortunate end? Why did he torture himself with the practice of medicine day after day?

"Where is your family?"

Edward blinked, thoughtfully calculating his reply. "My family died in an automobile crash nearly eighty years ago."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, etching a small circle into the dirt with my bare toes.

"It was not the first time," he murmured, burying a hand in his windblown curls.

"Pardon?" I could not meet his gaze.

Edward's thousand yard stare extended far into the forest at my back. "I watched my parents lose their only son in nineteen twenty-two. Mothers are not built to grieve their children."

"Did you contact them after you... _changed?" _I asked, slightly fidgety under the weight of our subject matter. "Maybe they held out hope you'd come back? Maybe they wouldn't care that you're a vampire?"

A menacing snigger erupted from Edward's distorted lips. "Elizabeth and Edward Masen held devout Irish catholic beliefs," he sneered.

"What happened?" This certainly had to be the chip on Edward's shoulder, and I was determined to _respectfully_ crack the mystery.

"I arrived at our door after, perhaps several days later. My mother wept at the sore sight before her, my father left provisions in a cellar and locked it behind him, wary of the devil he feared."

"That's awful, you're their son," I rebuked, hoping the declaration would will an alternative ending into existence for the Swan legacy. _I was Charlie and Renee's daughter._ "You'll always be Edward Masen." _I would always be Bella Swan._

"My mother agreed with your sentiment, Bella. We'd take tea in the garden, card games in the evening, she hoped to ignore my condition and find a fairy tale ending. I believed her." Edward paused, inhaling a breath that filled his diaphragm. Despair, fury, hunger; each flashed over his cavalier face, each a clue as to how his tale would end.

"A week passed before my father welcomed me home properly. We sat for dinner. Sarah, our maid's apprentice, incised her palm with a knife... You understand?" I nodded, recalling Lauren's siren blood in Port Angeles with expert precision. "My father chased me into the street. He declared Edward Masen Jr. deceased in the next edition of the tribune. I have a grave there, though far from my family plot."

"Edward, I'm... I'm so sorry. You deserve better."

"I deserve exactly what I am due."

Another silent intermission. The sun had fully ascended behind Forks' standard grey cloud cover.

"Can I ask how you died?" I cringed, acknowledging the taboo line I had raced to cross. Charlie would be disappointed with my lack of decorum. It was time to further square away the corners of my new normal. _I would always strive to be plain old Isabella Swan._

Edward nodded, his breathy exhale acting as the preface to his sordid tale. "You've read more gripping tragedies in university."

"I'm new here," I quipped. A whisper of a grin flashed across his lips. "And I promise to forward my obituary when cause of death is finalized."

Edward didn't appreciate the reminder of my mysterious demise. "You're familiar with Northwestern's Law school? The Field Museum in Chicago?"

"Of course, I applied for a lit internship after graduation." _Human __Bella would absolutely mention plans for a graduate degree._

"That's brilliant, Bella," he smiled, I revelled in the comfort of his validation. "I was a year shy from scheduling my bar exam. Eager, ready to please... I had a Professor who needed case material from the Field Museum's archives, an important case. I volunteered to retrieve them. My memory jumps forward two days, I awoke to a vagrant attempting to steal my watch."

A heaviness entered my body, the weight of the world crushing each muscle and tendon. Edward's tale ran eerily parallel to my own.

"Did you ever find the vampire that changed you?"

"After briefly settling with Carlisle, I hunted a nameless-faceless vampire for nearly eight years. I eventually tracked her in Romania hiding with a nomadic coven, my death burned in her memory. She thought me a ghost."

"You can't know that," I consoled him, placing a hand over his clenched fist. He grimaced, an admission of subconscious guilt. He was aware of his attacker's internal monologue. Silent and one sided conversations between the Cullens occured daily, though telepathy was a concept my studious mind refused to accept. Was he privy to all thoughts? Or just those closest to him? Edward hadn't even flinched amidst the lewd thoughts I'd attempted to repress as he slaughtered his breakfast. I suppose as an immortal telepathic doctor an airtight poker face was often prescribed.

All traces of air left my lungs with an audible _whoosh_. "You read her mind? I'm gonna be sick."

"Not intentionally, Bella."

"How do you _accidentally_ invade someone's identity like that?" I growled through clenched teeth, clinging to the lone autonomous cell powering my brain. I looked like a vampire.

Edward took a pious step back, appearing nervous and experiencing an uncharacteristic bout of word vomit. "Some vampires have unique abilities. I am telepathic, though not of my own volition. Alice, well... Alice is psychic. Not traditionally; however, she knows what is certain subconsciously. The _why _and _when_ are often undisclosed."

Edward's family blurb tranquilized the growl building in my throat, embarrassment flooded my veins like ice water. He hadn't chosen to be a nosy, know-it-all prick; destiny paved the way for young Edward Masen. Once upon a time he woke as a vampire with the thoughts of others meandering alongside his own. "Anyone else?"

"Jasper has an empathic talent similar to mine."

"Great."

"You remain untapped, Ms. Swan," Edward smirked, tapping an index finger to his temple. "Carlisle suspects you're capable of psychic resistance. Though it could be a quirk with your natural wiring. You're the only person, living or dead, that has us perplexed in this way." he explained thoughtfully.

Palpable catharsis filled the foot of space between us. Stray thoughts and secrets free to roam their respective hemispheres safe from prying eyes. "Thank God," I laughed, the emotional whiplash causing a dizzying vignette to appear at the corners of my vision. I felt weak. The tenor of my unanswered question hummed in the air a moment later. "Who changed you?"

"It was Esme."

"Esme? The same Esme that leant me this dress?"

"The very same," he confirmed, his illegible expression stunted my knee jerk condolences. Sweet, beautiful women like Esme Cullen didn't play God with random strangers. She baked cookies and cupcakes for our neighbors, for Christ's sake.

"Why? How?"

"Esme had been working as a secretary at the museum for just a few months. She supervised my appointment in the archives. I have only seen her memories of that afternoon, but a paper cut appears to be the catalyst. She recalled a boy in my final moments, her son; he would've been similar to my age if he'd survived infancy. She offered her blood as I lost consciousness. I remember killing the vagrant thief to stop the burning days later, yet it felt like seconds."

The primal reminder of blood's savory tang scorched my throat. My hands flew to cup the skin there, the familiar ache of twin fangs shifted my smile.

"Your ability to resist is admirable," Edward said, pulling my arms back to my sides. His touch lingered a few seconds longer than necessary. "You don't need to fight it so hard. You're still Bella."

My gaze drifted to the dead bear at Edward's back. It's fur matted with blood, neck bent a la The Exorcist. My stomach clenched with anxiety.

"What troubles you," he asked, following my eye line. "There are other methods, as we discussed."

"I just like my food a little more docile," I admitted, wishing I could enjoy the convenience of a sandwich or Renee's macaroni and cheese. "In a glass, from a willing participant. I grew up here, but I'm not the hunting type... Especially large game."

Another smirk. "Miss Swan, I'm appalled that you do not realize my position atop the food chain," Edward laughed, the sound filled the barren branches around us with warmth.

"I'm sorry?"

"You drank from me," he challenged, a mischievous sparkle over his obsidian irises. "Perhaps you absorbed some knowledge from your father?"

"I wouldn't consider self mutilation '_hunting_,'" I sarcastically imitated air quotes with my fingers.

Edward extended his wrist, showcasing the blemish free skin he'd etched with a knife days ago. "Consider me a willing participant."

I wondered how often vampires shared blood. Was it unbecoming to ask for seconds? The act was intimate, yet primal. A viral custom passed from vampire to human, ingrained in a way that prohibited me from tearing my gaze up and down the bruise-like veins pulsing under Edward's skin.

"What are you thinking?" His voice shattered the spell.

I fidgeted with my dress to disguise a stumble backwards. "How do you... you know, _bite? _I can't believe I have to ask you that," my cheeks warmed, the question was passably polite and entirely juxtaposed to the graphic images poisoning my control.

Edward sensed my distress. The first syllable of three separate words died on his lips before he pinpointed a suitable answer to soothe my discomfort.

"I can show you, if you'd like."

"Seems messy," I warned, hoping to avoid another grisly demonstration from Edward.

"May I approach?" Edward waited for my subtle nod to closing the distance between us. He unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt, exposing his long neck and impressive upper chest.

I gasped, feeling the warmth of his sated glow. Fresh blood did wonderful things to the chalky skin of vampires.

"You see this vein here?" Edward pointed to an faint purple line just above his collar bone. "It's the base of the common carotid artery." Another gesture to lean closer. I held my breath. Edward noticed. "Participation, Miss Swan. Consider this a university lab."

"I don't want to hurt you," My declaration was unconvincing, my teeth secretly begged to find purchase deep in Edward's skin. In actuality, I was terrified to give into the vampire residing within. What if my predatory nature didn't pack away with ease?

"You won't." Edward blushed.

The lazy beat of his heart calmed my nerves. I inhaled Edward's dizzying scent at his insistence. Minutes or seconds passed, we stood still as statues under the midday cloud cover. Our synchronized pulses and steady breaths manifested an intoxicating air of bloodlust. As though rigged by God himself, my lips brushed the skin covering Edward's carotid, savoring the warmth and spicy aroma seeping from every flawless pore.

His skin gave under the delicious pressure of my teeth, I moaned as his blood flooded my mouth. Better than wine, better than ice cold water on a hot day, I inhaled what seemed like pints of Edward's ambrosia before he slowly stepped away from our strange embrace.

His eyelids became heavy, his full lips curling into a sleepy crooked grin. "I knew you were hungry."

"Yeah... I'm sorry," I whispered, breakfast pooling in my cheeks by the second. "Thank you, Edward. Your family has been incredibly helpful this week."

"You're family now, Bella. We all help each other."

* * *

Towards the tail end of our return to the Cullen's tree mansion, Edward pinned a sizable buck before offering the jugular to me with a shy grin. I politely declined, urging him to end the buck's lengthy struggle. Disappointment clouded his high. Edward snapped the buck's neck before viciously tearing into its neck.

"More for you," I said, attempting to halt Edward's Jekyll and Hyde persona from shifting. He sighed, disposing of the carcass in a nearby stream. I was too late.

He coldly ushered me inside the Cullen home before disappearing up the stairs to shower. Sportive Edward Masen; beloved son, compassionate vampire, and hunting companion ceased to exist once more. Straightforward, melancholic Doctor Roquelaure had taken his place.


	6. Alone Again Or

**Alone Again Or**

* * *

Edward's blood coursed through my veins in the week following our first and final hunting excursion, a dizzying reminder of his fair blush, good natured direction, and just how quickly it soured. Upon our return, I breathed for the rustling of his laundry next door, lived by the measured tap of his loafers through our shared wall in the early morning hours. I loathed every moment.

In counterpoint to my unrequited obsession, Edward carried on as a full-time doctor and recluse; he'd become increasingly short tempered and distant, avoiding our wing at all costs. Occasionally I'd catch a flash of auburn hair leaving Carlisle's study with armfuls of medical texts, a defeated sadness poisoning his boyish profile.

Carlisle and his eldest son bickered for days; Edward's furious growls bellowed through twisting mosaics of wooden beams and concrete.

The family dynamic shifted downward in the wake of a particularly spirited confrontation; a battle of dominance and stupidity starring Edward and Rosalie. The former's mind reading ability kept secret the crucial _why _and _who; _however, Rosalie chose a random Wednesday afternoon to vehemently scorn her brother's dishonesty, accusing him of ruining the coven's chance at a normal life in Forks. Edward seemed to calm momentarily, relaxing his eyelids, relishing in a memory or overheard notion. I watched his face eagerly from the living room sofa, hoping to see a flicker of my earnest friend from the woods.

Edward's gaze focused past Rosalie's huffing shoulders, flickering between my lips and eyes. I refocused on the blank page in my lap, drawing concentric circles along the edges.

My part time confidant leapt from his balcony two weeks later, never to return, never to explain. His blood faded and so did my fascination… _Or so I originally thought. _

Following Edward's departure, my newfound purpose manifested within an bare leather bound book discreetly borrowed from Esme's desk. I formally introduced myself to this journal, mentioning my latest birthday, a recently broken heart, and absolutely nothing of undead creatures or bloodshed.

I kept to myself, envisioning the day I would rejoin society as a studious coed or book store clerk. Esme's office became a refuge from a life I was content to bury, exiting only to take advantage of Carlisle's contraband supply of blood for minimal sustenance.

I replayed memories of taking _his _blood as I inhaled donations from Esme's crystalline glassware, my sole line of defense against a stubborn gag reflex. The taste was absolutely palatable, but my mortal aversion to bodily fluids occasionally triggered nonessential regurgitation.

Gaining control of my strength had not been linear, nor had it been easy. I roamed the yard for three listless weeks, watching the sun rise and fall ad nauseam. Days passed as minutes, centuries would surely pass as decades. Despite the overriding homicidal corruption of my frontal lobe, I quickly demonstrated my inability to take human life. In kind, Carlisle offered Emmett and Rosalie as guides for weekly outings to small peninsular towns.

Their company was pleasant, Emmett more so than his wife. Emmett's _laissez faire_ attitude and disarming grin translated into a genuine sibling rivalry between us. Rosalie, once again, chose to unleash a waterfall of frustrations our first trip to Titacoclos Falls, trailing far behind as Emmett and I traipsed miles of rock faces and budding canopies. Rosalie lamented Edward, her deft tongue hurling daggers of the metaphorical sort.

Her grief surprised me. Anger I'd expected, yet here I stood in the company of immense sadness for, _"a self righteous, pigheaded, life ruining, masochistic child."_

_"Rosie, Ed's a prick. Jump in the lake, dear," _Emmett's voice echoed over the rock, his tone soft and patient from the water below.

Shedding her leather jacket and icy exterior, Rosalie catapulted into our frozen basin. _"It's hardly a lake, my dear."_

Edward was not mentioned again. Stories of my _not-so-human_ friends eventually invaded the sanctuary of my journal, this bookmarked a fleeting phase of acceptance and prosperity.

_Ever so fleeting…_

Occasionally I would wonder onto a paved street several blocks from Main, pretending to be _any-old-nobody_ with an errand or a family back at home. Emmett discourage these moments, keeping me corralled to a semi-strict nature regimen. I obeyed in fear of retaliation.

Routing decisions were often outsourced to resident psychic on speed dial: Alice Cullen. The most upbeat member of the coven's psychic ability relied less upon whirling crystal balls and heavily upon underwhelming affirmations toward a desirable outcome. Three weeks ago, for example, I overheard Alice convincing Carlisle to stall his morning commute. Having been on the unsavory side of his daughter's talent many times, Carlisle understood the signal and stalled his travels, engaging with Emmett and Alice for twenty minutes before departing for Fork's General. Fifteen minutes later, Carlisle rang to confirm he'd been witness to a hit and run involving a methamphetamine addict and Robert Cheney's pewter pickup. Subtle. Effective. He saved the man's life.

Alice was keen to scrap my outings after minute changes in the forecast, prattling on about cold fronts and bad vibes. The excuses skewed shallow, barely holding enough water to douse my rage. Two vases and a mid century loveseat met their end at my hand. At Esme's insistence, I turned to stream of consciousness journaling, archiving my feelings to aid future meltdowns. Reams of notebooks were decimated in weeks as I lamented my rage, the edge of my desk littered with number two pencil halves and eraser scraps.

Vampirism purposely remained taboo in the world I penned. My intentions to cement normalcy and hide my lugubrious nature quickly became an internalized hatred of reality.

Jasper's empathic prowess had yet to make itself useful. The man was reclusive by nature and utterly reluctant to speak until spoken to. Chit-chat with a man possessed with the power to feel and warp your emotions seemed a waste of oxygen. He'd ghost through the house clutching stacks of crisp manila envelopes, existing as a member of the coven, yet thriving behind a wall of solitude. He stood and he sensed, stoic as a commemorative statue. Jasper played his opinions close to the vest and rarely found himself at odds with a family member.

I grew to respect his silence when I signed and dated the outline of my own vow. In four pages, I organized the stunted and perverted self righteousness of the Cullens posing as law abiding, tax paying citizens. Their numbers, their assets, their desire to repeat the same fallacy for centuries; It was deranged. I would take no part in their games.

With time, an abundant and endless currency on Nottingham Way, I noticed a bizarre codependency within each couple. Rarely distant and spineless in the face of conflict with their wives, the men sacrificed fundamental autonomy to protect their partners. Furthermore, the Cullen women enjoyed courting a fine line between predatory behavior and antiquated niceties perpetuated by the patriarchy.

The Cullen compound was a different planet. My millennial title and contention deemed the Cullens public enemy number one. I owed myself a fair chance to escape.

Rosalie had been granted sabbatical for the second half of spring semester, one of few reasons for a Barcelona honeymoon extension; a biology fellowship could wait with eternity to spare. Emmett initially pouted, but traded in University of Washington's _Señora Roth_ for a one way business class ticket to Spain. Gone just over a month now, the house was decidedly lonelier without their playful bickering.

My outings halted, my feelings burst forth in waves of haphazard shorthand. In private protest, I abstained from blood for twenty days. My bathroom mirror quickly foretold the horrors of my forbearance. Parchment skin over hollow cheeks, matte black eyes surrounded by a gradient of grey hues. Bluish lips stretched tight over menacing fangs_._ Paranoia crept through my ballpoint pen, poisoning my words and skewing my ability to think clearly. The final days of my fast proved the hardest as mania gripped my nervous system. Starving a vampire was a dangerous game and I wasn't much for gambling.

My bloodlust waned upon breaking my fast, though my body began to crave the carcass of stale macerated cigarettes in the bottom on my backpack. Certainly an odd craving; the nicotine hardly satisfied in practice, though it busied my hands and mouth, covering humanity's cloying scent with a cloak of ash and smoke. Only regular feedings granted provisional amnesty, but Alice was happy to bestow my desk with a carton of Marlboros each week to tide me over. Cowboy killers weren't my first choice, but the humor was not lost.

Esme whisked batter with fury seven days a week, folding her sorrows into thousands of layers of flaky pastry dough and the shoulder of her dutiful husband. The kitchen's comforting orchestra now played a melancholy requiem, the familiar scents and sounds serving reminders of my stolen humanity.

Carlisle held his ground amidst the category four undertow. Commitments continued undisturbed with the magnetic inertia of our patriarch. The Cullens swam parallel, marching on without their prodigal son, acting as though Edward's banishment _or abandonment_ was business as usual.

Emmett posted letters from paradise, regaling tales of deep sea swims to Palma and the bountiful local cuisine. I saved every last one in my journals, regardless of how cheap or touristy.

In early April, Alice announced Jasper's success in renting a warehouse for eyeglass assembly, furthering their plan to own a Chicago storefront spring of the following year. The family rejoiced in exclamatory praises, feeding their hope for a better life, forgetting altogether about a life with Edward.

Wary of the future and reluctant to fully embrace my novel life as a vampire, I swam for a shrinking shoreline. I deserved Edward's fate; Edward advocated a choice he'd never been given, offering his blood and wit as reparations for a poorly dealt hand. As a result of my vampirism, their ranks fell. I was the outlier, the lone wolf, the extra mouth to feed.

A three week provisions trip for Alice's company preceded my decision to confront Carlisle. I needed my disappearance to go undetected by the highly gifted vampires. Though, I was convinced their patriarch would hear my claim. Carlisle seemed a reasonable man, slow to anger, and reluctant to harshly criticize.

"How are you, Bella?" Carlisle spoke from the abyss of his study. My fist -poised to knock- shook from the surprise of his abrupt greeting.

I tapped the solid oak inwards, flinching when it collided with an ornate bookcase brimming with endless bric a brac. My strength exceeded expectation, a quirk that manifested after a feeding. "Hi, uh, _good_," I shuffled forward, slinking into a plush armchair opposite his desk. "Do you have a moment?"

Carlisle smiled gently before closing the manila envelope he'd been inspecting. "Of course, Bella."

I considered my script; a thoughtfully concocted cover letter followed by an acknowledgment of the olive branch extended in Port Angeles, and a punchy resignation._ I was not a Cullen. I would not parade as such._

My hands balled into unintentional fists as I chewed my bottom lip. Experiencing Carlisle's ethereal aura in real time quickly nixed several _flourishments_ in my prepared speech. "I wanted to thank you for taking me in. I can only imagine what a burden it must be," My voice held little emotion, as though reciting from a cue.

"You are not a burden, Isabella," Carlisle rebutted, his face expectant, yet serene. He leaned forward in his chair. "I hold doctor-patient confidentiality close to my heart, dear. What can I do to make you comfortable here."

Unnecessary breath filled my lungs. "I have to leave," the upturned lilt of a question punctuated the silence that followed.

"I am saddened to hear this, Isabella," he sighed, pushing several papers to the edge of his desk. "May I ask what has brought this forth? Has my son been in contact with you?"

I blanched, subject derailment further threatened my resolve. Edward had not been a part of the script. In fact, he'd been purposefully omitted to minimize exactly how the man's memory plagued me so.

"Ed-_Edward," _I swallowed thickly, saying _his_ name aloud thrilled me. "No, no. He's been gone."

Carlisle's eyes narrowed minutely, not convinced by my shaky tenor. "Have you studied the _génération perdue_?"

"Uh, yes," I quipped, recalling a series of overbooked lectures at University of Washington centered around the work of Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway.

"Of course. Edward was never a soldier, but he remained lost like the best of them," Carlisle explained, surprisingly vulnerable in the wake of his son's absence. "May I ask why you need to depart so soon? Are you experiencing some difficulty?"

At last, questions I'd prepared for. "Before I moved to Forks my _boyfriend_," the term of endearment for Jacob churned my stomach, "and I separated. I came home to sort everything out and I'm not sure it is possible surrounded by, _um..."_

"I see," Carlisle affirmed, deftly sparing me from sharing the gory details of sharing bedroom walls with his immortal, amoral progeny. "I understand your predicament, Bella. I am deeply sorry that our home has not received you well. Can I offer accommodations elsewhere?"

Carlisle sped from his seated position behind the desk to the towering shelf at my back. He thumbed through a legal box of sienna folders, pausing to inspect a packet with multiple real estate listings. "Or if you found a suitable flat, our trust will happily cover your dues."

"That's very kind, Mr. Cullen, but I must insist upon some independence in this matter."

Carlisle stilled, meeting my hardened gaze before turning back to the shelves. "You are correct, my dear," he said, stashing the dusty cardboard box in its rightful place. "Each one of my children left sooner, never later. And always for the best."

Choosing to ignore Carlisle's quiet introspection, I studied the papers adorning his massive desk. A familiar red and white emblem caught my attention, resurfacing my last collection of human memories. My vision unfocused as vertigo churned my stomach.

"Are you unwell?"

I swallowed the sanguine bile rising in my throat, "Um, no. Perhaps I should-"

"Isabella," Carlisle interrupted, his folded hands and sobering tenor bearing uncanny resemblance to a guilty statesman. "I must inform you about a peculiar sort of threat to our kind," he paused, glancing to a locked metal cabinet to the right of his desk. "Doctors, or so they call themselves, have brought our kind under the microscope" he sneered. "Their directive is to isolate and take advantage of vampires."

"Like trafficking?"

"From what we've gathered, it appears to be covert laboratories and containment units. We keep our distance, of course, but I have yet to encounter the alliance by chance in my four hundred years on this earth. I implore you not to fear, Isabella. Simply be aware of your surroundings and exercise discretion. Eugenics failed with the Greeks, the Nazis, and President Wilson. A few North American labs aren't a major concern.

"The rest of the world?"

"Oh yes, foreign programs have been coming across my desk for years."

I nodded, digesting the gravity of Carlisle's warning. There was surely much to being a vampire the Cullen's had failed to teach me, but I couldn't stall further. The house was empty and my patience was thin.

"Keep our address should you need an update in the new year. I trust your judgement, Isabella. Discretion is the only law our kind abides, I ask of you to abstain from visiting those close to you. Can I have your word?" Carlisle offered his palm.

"Absolutely," I grinned, the tunnel's end coming nearer with every passing moment. "Thank you, Carlisle. Our secret is safe." A firm handshake relinquished Carlisle's dominion. I was free to leave.

Assuming vampires didn't need much to survive, I filled my canvas pack with various pens and leather notepads before tiptoeing downstairs to the foyer. A nylon hiking bag precariously leaning against the rail stalled my exit; its sleek fabric saturated with Carlisle's signature scent, a mixture of pine and medical grade bleach. Had Carlisle forgotten this bag in a rush to make rounds? _Certainly not, vampires did not suffer from forgetfulness._

My own bag tumbled to the floor as I crouched before the mystery offering. The zipper gave way to the dizzying aroma of human blood, five bags precisely. Enough to modestly sustain a journey of five weeks with proper refrigeration.

A thick yellow envelope rested within an adjacent compartment, the contents labeled as confidential. Wide eyed, I quickly thumbed hundreds of crisp twenty dollar bills. Stashing the money deep into the bag, I glanced around the foyer to ensure further privacy. The house remained silent, still empty from what I could discern.

Near the bottom of Carlisle's bag my hands grazed soft leather. The light of day revealed a man's wallet worn with age; inside, an Illinois driver's license adorned with my human face.

_Mrs. Bella M. Masen_

_Edward's original surname._ Was this Carlisle's attempt at granting a clean break, garnishing my new life with the name of an enemy? I growled, finding the name emblazoned on a gold American Express behind the ID.

I ditched the bank account, opting to travel liquid. Escaping held no purpose if a trail of credit pinpointed my destination. The identification would be of use eventually, regardless of the name it bore.

The eastern foyer balcony facilitated my escape, ice and mud drenching my sneakers as I disappeared into the forest.

I'd never been the outdoorsy type, to my father's dismay. The wilderness held my interest for fleeting playdates and bonfires. My sixth grade camping trip to Klahowya was perhaps my longest stint without a buffer between me and the outdoors.

My allegiance remained firmly loyal to the simple creature comforts of a standard American home; A warm television in the family room, leaded tiles in a partially updated bath, nondescript casserole dishes with love listed as the main ingredient. Charlie and Renee had been naive to neglect my education with the rudiments of survival, opting for more scholarly clubs, a general faux pas in rural Washington. Fortunately, vampirism fortified my body against exposure and malnourishment; equal parts blessing and curse in my current circumstance.

In Portland, our neighbors considered me an avid hiker. A ruse perpetuated by long walks in the opposite direction of Jacob and our rental home. What appeared to be a solution to a domestic situation resulted in the end of my natural life; my only legitimate regret regardless of the holes in my timeline.

Even four months later, the events preceding my death remained shrouded in mystery. Flickering memories of shadowy branches breaking through clusters of dirt and rock, similar to the organic maze beneath my frayed sneakers. Those images haunted me; A fight with Jacob, tap water spilt over primrose laminate, a freezing hike until the numbness of my limbs mimicked my heart.

Somewhere along the way I accepted the pieces of my puzzle would always be lost. My story would never be investigated or evolve into the scene of a withered old woman surrounded by generations of kin, nor would it be told. I'd create endless pseudonyms, pen false tales, spin countless lies in regard to my youth and origins. What would come of the memories I did retain? Of Charlie and Renee? My journal alone held these thoughts and anecdotes. Until now, I remained hopeful the mystery would reveal itself, though I was not naive enough to dwell.

My brisk gate faltered, throwing the entirety of my weight into a petrified log. Shards of oak shattered upon impact, my shoulders carved a deep crater into the earth.

_"Fuck,"_ I sobbed, punching the tree pulp into minuscule splinters. Frozen dirt and stone crumbled like fine sand. The severity of my frustration bewildered and taunted me, beckoning the vampire front and center.

My entire focus whilst living with the Cullens had been dedicated to smoothing and straightening the corners of my human facade. While I wasn't passable as a student or coworker quite yet, Carlisle applauded my composure around the mailman or a passing jogger. The Cullens endured the brunt of our human contact while I politely engaged from the sidelines, accepting any praise of my _goodness_ as proof of my ability to abide and succeed. Exactly how _good _did not matter. I'd been guileless to expect sunshine and rainbows post quarantine. Surprise crept through an impenetrable shield of masochism to jeer my wounds.

Somewhere in my scrawlings about philosophy and humanity I envisioned my departure from the Cullen's to feel like a christening. To leave would feel like a breath of fresh spring air after the longest winter, or to hug my mother on the last day of sleep-away camp. No such renaissance awaited past the timber walls of my prison.

Still, the brown tinged moss appeared to glow with opportunity. Stems teased their florets, beckoning bears to cease hibernating. The sun was high in the sky now, a rare bout of blue in virescent Forks. Budding wildlife exhaled in counterpoint to my stilted pulse. A sigh escaped my lips as I hauled my defeated limbs upright. Melted permafrost stained my jeans and the space under my fingernails. Another sigh.

The distinct scent of primordial chimney smoke polluted the air, luring my short attention further east. I walked at a brisk human pace, crossing the familiar tree line of my family's property.

Straggly rope from a long forgotten punching bag, an ill-informed construction of wood and patchwork carpet remnants to resemble a playhouse; my early years laid in ruin at my feet. Fifty yards ahead sat the slumping Tudor composite Charlie purchased in nineteen-ninety. Built in the thirties, it stood the test of time and precipitation considerably well. Our home was mostly brick, a tad small, but ideal for a humble family of three. My father paid his modest loan in seventeen years, a testament to the blue collar dream I was raised to worship.

What was to become of the mossy foundation in twenty years? The eggshell siding in seventy? The forest would surely reclaim our land without Charlie's labor, the property would go to auction, and an estate sale would take care of the rest.

Edward's recollection of his fateful homecoming stalled my advance, more-so than Carlisle's final warning to avoid my family. Would my parents be excited to see me? Would they shun the monster I'd become? Was it safe to spend one last night?

"Isabella?" Charlie's gruff baritone bellowed from the rear sliding door. His heart rate increased, my teeth ached to find purchase somewhere other than my bottom lip. "Bells? Where did you- Why?" Charlie mumbled, emerging from the house in faded blue jeans and a classic red flannel; mud soaked his house slippers as he carelessly traipsed the expanse of our yard.

I gasped, bracing myself against the monster's sudden wakefulness. The mud caked to my arms constricted, tightening below a gust of wind spiked with Castile soap and type O. "Dad, stay-"

"Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?" Charlie's surprise turned to anger as he slowed to a sluggish walk at the tree line, tears brimmed over his yellowed eyes. "Isabella?"

My jaw clenched in an effort to fight the overwhelming urge to charge forward and snap my father's neck.

Charlie recognized my hesitation, his many years of honest police work overriding familial instinct. "You're safe, baby girl. Come inside, let's get you cleaned up."

I signaled to the house with an incline of my head, employing the single most useful lesson I garnered from Rosalie: Holding your breath indefinitely; _vampirism for dummies._

"Come on, sweetheart" he goaded, surveying my ragged appearance. Charlie's worry lines appeared to triple as his steady hands ghosted along my pallid forearms, searching for any signs of injury. My skin burned in the wake of his warmth, a startling reminder of how cold I would feel to my father. "I told your _'ma_ I wouldn't get upset, but I've got half a mind to sue that clinic. They should've never discharged you." the tips of Charlie's ears glowed scarlet with rage.

"Can I shower?" I gasped, fiercely swallowing against the burn in my throat.

Charlie's chest heaved a drawn out breath, a flicker of uncharacteristic levity granted my reprieve. "Of course, cadet."

The house was quiet aside from the rickety hum of our elderly washing machine and some loose coinage. Unwashed dish-ware littered the sink, flies defiled a forgotten bowl of fruit in the kitchen sill.

Charlie attempted to tidy several objects within eye line as he lead me to the laundry covered stairs, gruffly clearing his throat to disguise the beginnings of a sob.

"Where's mom?" I asked, utilizing the remainder of my air reservoir. _Had something happened to Renee?_ Panic flooded my body, largely outweighing the desperation to drink my father's blood.

"She's down in Aberdeen for the weekend. Should be back for supper," he replied, figuratively donning navy blue to relay further _unsavory_ news. Right hand holstering an invisible gun, his eyes welled once more. "Aunt Jeanette was moved to hospice a few weeks ago and your mother drives down every few days to sit with her."

"I'm sorry," I mouthed, unsure if my sentiment was intended for Jeanette or my own intrusion.

"Alright, It's three now," Charlie announced suddenly, eyeing the oven's dim LCD digits. "I need to head into town and pick up dinner before mom gets home. Anything you need, kiddo?"

A few personal hygiene items came to mind, though nothing critical enough to draw breath. I declined his offer, silently excusing myself to the bathroom upstairs.

The oversized mirror with flecks of rust in each corner reflected my heart shaped face, a welcome sight as I certainly did not _feel _like Bella Swan. Stark naked and shivering from relief, I resembled the woman I'd been before falling into a gorge. Standing under the brassy bathroom light was an overqualified consultant, average girlfriend, and cherished daughter.

I didn't wait for the water to warm before stepping under the spray, rejoicing in the stream of brown swirling down the drain. Renee's generic body wash masked my senses with artificial citrus, forcing my bloodlust to relinquish its reign. The monster was retreating, shrinking under the pervasive odor. I could breathe freely, and so I did, inhaling humidified air until the shower ran cool once more.

My departure in December had been abrupt; leaving behind a room with few belongings and even fewer clues. When I penned my original note under the watchful gaze of Carlisle, I knew my words would confuse and alarm, propelling them to contact Jacob and his family, _which included half the Yellow Pages in Clallam County._

How long before the curious denizens of Forks descended upon our street to confirm the Swan daughter's second mysterious homecoming? I could picture Jacob's Aunt and Mother greeting us with tea and lemon loaf just as dawn broke, dog-earing gossip to send to Portland.

Dread and doubt deflated my body until it lay across my rickety twin bed. The distinct crinkling of paper alerted me to the presence of two pure white envelopes at my back. Both had been anonymously addressed to _Bella Swa_n; however, the familiar Reed College emblem identified the sender as none other than Jacob Black..

Unsurprisingly, the first note was expertly drafted on company letterhead and dated January sixteenth. Nearly a month after I joined the Cullens.

_Isabella,_

_Please call me so we can talk about this. My mom said you left Forks and we're all worried for your safety. I'm sorry about Katie, Bells. The deal fell through with our investor in Arizona. It was all a mistake, baby, please believe me. Please __call__ me. I want you home._

_I love you,_

_J._

_Too little, too late, _I sneered, tearing the letter into diminutive pieces. I craved to tear him apart with my teeth. My fingers fumbled the second envelope, my core trembling with anger and anxiety. Jacob omitted the letterhead, opting to include a grayscale xerox of a heavily redacted police report. Haphazard scrawling bled from the back.

_B,_

_I know what happened to you. Come home._

_Jake._

The police report held little information. A '_B Swan'_ was mentioned in the city of Portland. Both evidence and injury columns had been obscured by a wide black marker, though the redaction stopped just short of the crime scene description.

Dated February thirteenth, the officer listed Crystal Springs Creek as the location of a hiking accident. Dogs detected heavily blood soaked ground just north of Botsford Drive; a Reed College thermos was found fifty feet south. Unseasonably high precipitation and the late nature of their search were annotated below the final line, effectively dismissing further investigation within the Portland Police Department.

Was Jacob saying he knew I'd become a vampire? Or he knew what lead to my fall down a canyon face? I checked the date, stunned to see it posted just over a week ago. My sluggish heart paused, suddenly aware of the ultra nosey community that bore me. If my father saw these reports, the vampire secret would surely be discovered sooner or later.

As if on cue, Charlie's car sped up the drive followed by mom's chortling Subaru. Renee hurried to strong arm several bags of groceries from the passenger seat, house keys poised in between her right thumb and index finger.

Tucking the police report beneath my pillow, I speedily dressed in a hand-me-down sweater and blue jeans. My heart raced to an anxiously human rhythm in anticipation of Renee's arrival.

I estimated thirty seconds before Charlie attempted to greet me, I could sense his nerves like a live wire a story below.

Mirror checking my smile for any sign of fangs, I scowled at the inhuman complexion hiding just below a mask of stray curls. Pearlescent skin, peach lips, a thousand dollar grin; I felt uncomfortable in this skin, though the shock value was beginning to ware off.

Washing my hands of the vampire mythos had been easy living amongst other vampires. Locked away in my converted-office-bedroom, writing stories of the dreams I left behind; I could easily separate myself from the leeches residing at Nottingham Way. I silently decried weekly hunting trips and super powers as abominable offenses, hardly realizing I possessed the very same DNA. Hating vampires hadn't made me less of one, or any more human for that matter.

"Isabella?" he whispered, quietly tapping his knuckles against the doorframe. "Can I come in?"

"Yes." I inhaled sharply as Charlie turned the knob, once again feeling the vampire resurface.

"You look… cleaner, cadet," he commented, his wise gaze gauging the dilation of my pupils. Of course, he wouldn't see them, my irises were eternally void of color. "You're mother is downstairs. I,_ uh,_ let her know you aren't feeling well. Okay, Bells?"

I nodded, swallowing against the embers scorching my throat.

"Why don't you help your mom, kiddo. I'm gonna freshen up for dinner," Charlie stepped aside, nervously waving his left arm toward the stairs.

Carefully maintaining a human pace, I followed my father's orders like the attentive daughter they raised. Not the aimless, heartbroken zombie they collected from the airport in December.

Vampire or not, I was determined to leave Charlie and Renee with one last normal night. One last dinner, one last baseball game, _and_ _with utmost caution_, one last hug. With a proper goodbye I could start anew without the guilt, free from the shame desecrating this sentimental bridge would cause.

Oblivious to my presence, Renee raced to organize the mess of groceries strewn about the kitchen.

"Mom," I croaked, noticing just how grey and frail my mother had become over the course of my five month absence.

Renee jumped in fright, her delicate fingers dropping a bunch of bananas to the floor. "Sweet Jesus, Isabella. You move like a ghost," she chastised, brushing invisible dust from the discarded fruit.

"Sorry."

Tears sprung from my mother's eyes in that moment. I stood frozen in the doorway, shocked at her outburst, but suddenly unsure of my control. My reserve oxygen felt low after three succinct interactions, I couldn't imagine having to console Renee.

"My baby," she whimpered, leaning into the counter for support. "I'm so glad you're home."

I swallowed thickly before drawing a timid breath. Flames licked my throat, like a freshly stoked fire. Ruddy tears brimmed in my lashes now.

"I'm home," I repeated, tasting the air on my tongue. My mother's blood permeated the air with its floral potency, though her anguish doused a fraction of my thirst. "Sorry."

"None of that," she dismissed my apology, returning to her maze of groceries. "Are you still smoking?"

"No, I told you, I quit."

"That's great, sweetie," she replied, her tone distracted and seemingly miles away.

"Have you heard from Jacob?" I asked. I busied my hands with the mountain of bags overtaking the table. "Or anyone from school?" I added, nonchalantly.

"Oh, he calls once a week or so. Usually your father picks up, I'm not so sure what he wants," Renee explained, wiping the freshly cleared counter with a neatly folded dish rag. "How does meatloaf sound, dear?"

"Sounds great, mom."

I cleared the kitchen and dining table of any clutter before retiring to the family room couch. While feigning a nap, I listened to Charlie's footfalls echo all through the house, the frequent pacing a manifestation of the anxiety ravaging his mind. My mother moved about the house as well, expertly tackling her celebratory meatloaf recipe and a laundry list of chores simultaneously. Her momentum seemed infallible, but my heightened senses felt a storm brewing beneath the surface.

Mom's pot roast left the oven to rest shortly after eight, a _later-than-average_ family dinner, though Charlie didn't appear frustrated with Renee's timing as he strode into the kitchen quarter past.

"Smells great," he grumbled, loudly scraping a kitchen chair across the floor. "Hungry, Bells?"

I smiled, biting the inside of my cheek. "I could eat." _If only they knew. _

_"_Would you like to visit the farmer's market tomorrow," Renee asked, setting the table with warm plates directly from the wash. "In Port Angeles?"

Charlie gruffly cleared his throat just then, a morsel of meatloaf lodging itself in his overgrown beard. "Actually, I was hoping Bells would help me with the shed tomorrow."

"Oh Charles, she doesn't want to clean your shed," Renee punctuated her rebuttal with a heavy fist to the tabletop.

"We talked about this," Charlie pressed further, discarding a forkful to properly address his wife. "She's not ready yet, Renee. Look what happened when you dragged her to Port Angeles in December?"

"What happened, Charlie? I'm not sure we ever received a diagnoses."

"Why don't you ask you daughter, she's sitting right next to you," my father abruptly excused himself, unnecessarily stomping his loafer clad feet up to their bedroom.

Renee's tears catapulted from her cheeks onto the table.

Edward's cautionary tale and Carlisle's agreement hadn't been attempts to control me, they'd been mindful efforts to spare my family. It was obvious my parents were under duress for a multitude of reasons, but my mystery condition was triggering high levels of anxiety and fear I'd never been privy to.

My fortified mind took stock of Renee's chestnut waves, her gentle blue eyes framed by lines of laughter, even the tortuous way her tears stripped a lifetime of resilience to reveal a frightened young woman.

"I love you, mom."

"I love you, Isabella," she smiled faintly.

The scrape of my chair legs disrupted our momentary reprieve. I had little experience with indefinite goodbyes, but I knew dwelling was a surefire way to undermine the initiative.

Renee didn't question as I followed after my father, though I wasn't keen to confront him immediately. To my surprise, Charlie sat upon my bed with my backpack in hand.

"Close the door," he deadpanned, menacing eyes locked on mine in professional interrogation mode. I complied. "Don't lie. Where have you been?"

"With some friends."

"Bullshit, Isabella. Never lied your whole life, don't start now." Charlie turned his attention to the backpack. "I ought to haul you downtown and slap you with a robbery charge for what's in this bag."

"Dad, the money-"

"The money will go back where it came from," he began to laugh, disbelief marring his professional facade. "The blood, Isabella. Are you on drugs? Is someone injured or ill? This is a very serious crime."

"I didn't steal."

Charlie reached into the backpack, pulling out a small plastic blood satchel. "Property of Vancouver General," he read aloud, dangling the bag as if to taunt the truth from me. "Without a passport or medical license, I find your account unlikely."

More than the truth was beginning to apply pressure to my lips. I hid my changing appearance from Charlie as each canine quickly stretched into a menacing point.

Two distinct options laid before me. I could catapult myself through my bedroom's rickety window in mere seconds, never to be seen again; or I could earnestly share my burden with a man who would never stop searching.

Speed and strength were a vampire's ultimate weapon. I could live as a fugitive for thousands of years; running from Jacob, Carlisle, Edward, my parents, _my past mistakes_ with little consequence.

"Isabella?"

I lifted the veil of hair shielding my face, opting to hold Charlie's curious stare. "Dad, remember that fall I took in December?"

"Your concussion?" he asked, unsure of my point. "Was it not a concussion?"

"No. Well, it probably would have been a concussion. I have no memories of that night, but I woke up in the woods two days later. If you look under my pillow, you'll see a police report. I'm sorry, I should've told you everything from the beginning," I rambled, pandering nervously to my father's forgiving nature.

He fumbled for the report, scanning its contents as disbelief colored every feature a sickly grey. "They must've made a mistake, Bells. Maybe it was some animal killed and dragged off? People don't walk away from scenes like this."

"I didn't survive."

"That's not possible-"

"Charlie, I need you to trust me," I pleaded, rushing to the bedside at lightening speed. My father immediately dropped the report and satchel to the floor in surprise. "My hair hasn't grown, my skin is cold, I haven't slept in months," I lamented, grabbing the discarded objects and stuffing them into the backpack. "It's not safe for me to stay, I need to be alone."

"We can get help, Isabella. We'll figure this out," Charlie clasped both my hands in his, silently begging for this moment to slow. "We'll find doctors, we'll re-open Portland PD's case. _Hell,_ I haul Jacob Black's ass in here for questioning tomorrow."

"I love you, dad," I wept, "Thank you."

Anxiety flooded Charlie's withered face, the full impact of my admission clearly hadn't registered. "It's not over, cadet. This is just the beginning."

"I'll call when I can, I promise. Please take care of mom," more tears brimmed at the mention of Renee, grief constricted my throat.

"Where will you go?" Charlie cleared his throat, peering into the depths of my obsidian eyes for unspoken riposte.

"Chicago."


End file.
